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LAMB'S    ESSAYS. 


It. 


ESSAYS    OF    ELIA 

AND 

ELIANA 

BY   CHARLES    LAMB 

WITH    A    MEMOIR 

BY  BARRY   CORNWALL 

VOL,    II. 


NEW   YORK 
SCOTT-THAW    CO. 

MDCCCCIII 


Al 


CONTENTS   OF   VOL.  II. 


Preface  by  a  Friend  of  the  late  Elia     . 

LAST  ESSAYS   OF   ELIA. 

Blakesmoor  in  H shire 

Poor  Relations 

Detached  Thoughts  on  Boolis  and  Reading 

Stage  Illusion 

To  the  Shade  of  EUiston 

Ellistoniana    . 

The  Old  Margate  Hoy  . 

The  Convalescent  . 

Sanity  of  True  Genius  . 

Captain  Jackson     . 

The  Superannuated  Man 

The  Genteel  Style  in  Writing 

Barbara  S— — 

The  Tombs  in  the  Abbey 

Amicus  Redivivus . 

Some  Sonnets  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney 

Newspapers  Thirty-five  Years  Ago 

Barrenness  of  the  Imaginative  Faculty  in  the  Produc 
tions  of  Modern  Art    . 

The  Wedding  .         .         -         - 

Rejoicings  upon  the  New  Year's  Coming  of  Age 

Old  China      . 

The  Child  Angel  ;  a  Dream 

Confessions  of  a  Drunkard 

Popular  Fallacies  : — 

i.  That  a  Bully  is  always  a  Coward 
ii.  That  Ill-gotten  Gain  never  Prospers 


95 
99 
1 06 
116 

126 
141 
149 
157 
165 
169 


CONTENTS. 


iii.  That  a  Man  must  not  Laugh  at  his  Own  Jest 
iv.  That  such  a  one  shows  his  Breeding — that  it  is 

easy  to  perceive  he  is  no  Gentleman 
V.  That  the  Poor  copy  the  Vices  of  the  Rich 
vi.  That  Enough  is  as  Good  as  a  Feast 
vii.  Of  Two  Disputants,  the  Warmest  is  Generally 

in  the  Wrong 

viii.  That  Verbal  Allusions   are    not  Wit,  because 
they  will  not  bear  a  Translation 
ix.  That  the  Worst  Puns  are  the  Best     . 
X.  That  Handsome  Is  that  Handsome  Does 
xi.  That  we  must  not  Look  a  Gift  Horse  in  t! 

Mouth 

xii.  That  Home  is  Home,   though   it  is  never  so 
homely    ....... 

xiii.  That  you  must  Love  Me  and  Love  My  Dog 
xiv.  That  we  should  Rise  with  the  Lark  . 
XV.  That  we  should  Lie  Down  with  the  Lamb 
xvi.  That  a  Sulky  Temper  is  a  Misfortune 


\GE 
182 

ib. 
183 
185 


197 
202 
J07 
210 


ELIANA. 

A  Biographical  Essay  on  Elia 219 

The  Gentle  Giantess 235 

The  Reynolds  Gallery 239 

Guy  Faux 242 

A  Vision  of  Horns 244 

The  Good  Clerk,  a  Character        .....  262 

Reminiscence  of  Sir  Jeft'ery  Dunstan    ....  271 

On  a  Passage  in  "  The  Tempest "         •         .         .        .  274 

The  Months 279 

Biographical  Memoir  of  Mr.  Liston      ....  283 

Autobiography  of  Mr.  Munden 295 

The  Illustrious  Defunct 299 

The  Ass .         . 308 

In  Re  Squirrels 312 

Estimate  of  Defoe's  Secondary  Novels         .        .        .  314 

Postscript  to  the  "  Chapter  on  Ears  "   ....  318 

Elia  to  his  Correspondents 320 

Unitarian  Protests 323 

On  the  Custom  of  Hissing  at  the  Theatres  .        .         .  330 

Captain  Starkey _      .         .  339 

A  Popular  Fallacy  :  that  a  Deformed  Person  is  a  Lord  345 
Letter  to  an  Old  Gentleman  whose  Education  has  been 

Neglected 34S 

On  the  Ambiguities  arising  from  Proper  Names  .         .  357 


CONTENTS. 


Elia  on  his  "  Confessions  of  a  Drunkard  "    .        .        .  359 

The  Last  Peach 361 

Reflections  in  the  Pillory  364 

Cupid's  Revenge    . ^6g 

The  Defeat  of  Time  ;  or,  a  Tale  of  the  Fairies     .         .  389 

A  Death-bed .  -08 


Appendix 


4C1 


PREFACE. 


A    FRIEND   OF   THE   LATE   ELIA. 

flHIS  poor  gentleman,  who  for  some 
months  past  had  been  in  a  declining 
way,  hath  at  length  paid  his  final  tribute 
to  nature. 

To  say  truth,  it  is  time  he  were  gone.  The 
humour  of  the  thing,  if  ever  there  was  much  in  it, 
was  pretty  well  exhausted  ;  and  a  two  years'  and 
a  half  existence  has  been  a  tolerable  duration  for  a 
phantom. 

I  am  now  at  liberty  to  confess,  that  much  which 
I  have  heard  objected  to  my  late  friend's  writings 
was  well-founded.  Crude  they  are,  I  grant  you — 
a  sort  of  unlicked,  incondite  things — villanously 
pranked  in  an  affected  array  of  antique  modes  and 
phrases.  They  had  not  been  his,  if  they  had  been 
other  than  such  ;  and  better  it  is,  that  a  writer 
should  be  natural  in  a  self-pleasing  quaintness,  than 
to  affect  a  naturalness  (so  called)  that  should  be 
strange  to  him.  Egotistical  they  have  been  pro- 
nounced by  some  who  did  not  know,  that  what  he 
tells  us,  as  of  himself,  was  often  true  only  (his- 
torically) of  another  ;  as  in  a  former  Essay  (to  save 
many  instances) — where  under  {he  first  person  (his 
favourite  figure)  he  shadows  forth  the  forlorn  estate 
of  a  country-boy  placed  at  a  London  school,  far 
from  his  friends  and  connections — in  direct  oppo- 


X  PREFACE. 

gition  to  his  own  early  history.  If  it  be  egotism  to 
imply  and  twine  with  his  own  identity  the  griefs  and 
affections  of  another — malting  hiniself  many,  or  re- 
ducing many  unto  himself — then  is  the  skilful  no- 
velist, who  all  along  brings  in  his  hero  or  heroine, 
speaking  of  themselves,  the  greatest  egotist  of  all ; 
who  yet  has  never,  therefore,  been  accused  of  that 
narrowness.  And  how  shall  the  intenser  dramatist 
escape  being  faulty,  who,  doubtless,  under  cover  of 
passion  uttered  by  another,  oftentimes  gives  blame- 
less vent  to  his  most  inward  feelings,  and  expresses 
his  own  story  modestly  ? 

My  late  friend  was  in  many  respects  a  singular 
character.  Those  who  did  not  like  him,  hated  him  ; 
and  some,  who  once  liked  him,  afterwards  became 
his  bitterest  haters.  The  truth  is,  he  gave  himself 
too  little  concern  what  he  uttered,  and  in  whose 
presence.  He  observed  neither  time  nor  place,  and 
would  e'en  out  with  what  came  uppermost.  With 
the  severe  religionist  he  would  pass  for  a  free- 
thinker ;  while  the  other  faction  set  him  down  for 
a  bigot,  or  persuaded  themselves  that  he  belied  his 
sentiments.  Few  understood  him  ;  and  I  am  not 
certain  that  at  all  times  he  quite  understood  himself. 
He  too  much  affected  that  dangerous  figure — irony. 
He  sov^fed  doubtful  speeches,  and  reaped  plain, 
unequivocal  hatred.  He  would  inten'upt  the  gravest 
discussion  with  some  light  jest ;  and  yet,  perhaps, 
not  quite  irrelevant  in  ears  that  could  understand 
if.  Your  long  and  much  talkers  hated  him.  The 
informal  habit  of  his  mind,  joined  to  an  inveterate 
impediment  of  speech,  forbade  him  to  be  an  orator  ; 
and  he  seemed  determined  that  no  one  else  should 
play  that  part  when  he  was  present.  He  was  petit 
and  ordinary  in  his  person  and  appearance.  I  have 
setn  him  sometimes  in  what  is  called  good  com- 


PREFACE. 


T>any,  but  where  he  has  been  a  stranger,  sit  silent, 
and  be  suspected  for  an  odd  fellow  ;  till  some  un- 
lucky occasion  provoking  it,  he  would  stutter  out 
some  senseless  pun  (not  altogether  senseless,  per- 
haps, if  rightly  taken),  which  has  stamped  his 
character  for  the  evening.  It  was  hit  or  miss  with 
him,  but  nine  times  out  of  ten,  he  contrived  by  this 
device  to  send  away  a  whole  company  his  enemies. 
His  conceptions  rose  kindlier  than  his  uUerance, 
and  his  happiest  impromptus  had  the  appearance 
of  effort.  He  has  been  accused  of  trying  to  be 
witty,  when  in  truth  he  was  but  struggling  to  give 
his  poor  thoughts  articulation.  He  chose  his  com- 
panions for  some  individuality  of  character  which 
they  manifested.  Hence,  not  many  persons  of 
science,  and  few  professed  liteTati,  were  of  his 
councils.  They  were,  for  the  most  part,  persons 
of  an  uncertain  fortune ;  and,  as  to  such  people 
commonly  nothing  is  more  obnoxious  than  a  gen- 
tleman o{  settled  (though  moderate)  income,  he 
passed  with  most  of  them  for  a  great  miser.  To 
my  knowledge  this  was  a  mistake.  His  intimados, 
to  confess  a  truth,  were  in  the  world's  eye  a  ragged 
regiment.  He  found  them  floating  on  the  surface 
of  society  ;  and  the  colour,  or  something  else,  in 
the  weed  pleased  him.  Tlie  burrs  stuck  to  him— 
but  they  were  good  and  loving  burrs  for  all  that. 
He  never  greatly  cared  for  the  society  of  what  are 
called  good  people.  If  any  of  these  were  scan- 
dalized (and  offences  were  sure  to  arise)  he  could 
not  help  it.  When  he  has  been  remonstrated  with 
for  not  making  more  concessions  to  the  feelings  of 
good  people,  he  would  retort  by  asking,  what  one 
point  did  these  good  people  ever  concede  to  him  ? 
He  was  temperate  in  his  meals  and  diversions,  but 
always  kept  a  little  on  this  side  of  abstemiousness. 


Kii  PREFACE. 

Only  in  the  use  of  the  Indian  weed  he  might  be 
thought  a  little  excessive.  He  took  it,hewould  say,  as 
a  solvent  of  speech.  Marry— as  the  friendly  vapour 
ascended,  how  his  prattle  would  curl  up  sometimes 
with  it !  the  ligaments  which  tongue-tied  him  were 
loosened,  and  the  stammerer  proceeded  a  statist ! 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  ought  to  bemoan  or 
rejoice  that  my  old  friend  is  departed.  His  jests 
were  beginning  to  grow  obsolete,  and  his  stories  to 
be  found  out.  He  felt  the  approaches  of  age  ;  and 
while  he  pretended  to  cling  to  life,  you  saw  how 
slender  were  the  ties  left  to  bind  him.  Discoursing 
with  him  latterly  on  this  subject,  he  expressed 
himself  with  a  pettishness,  which  I  thought  un- 
worthy of  him.  In  our  walks  about  his  suburban 
retreat  (as  he  called  it)  at  Shacklewell,  some  chil- 
dren belonging  to  a  school  of  industry  had  met  us, 
and  bowed  and  curtseyed,  as  he  thought,  in  an 
especial  manner  to  hitn.  "They  take  me  for  a 
visiting  governor,"  he  muttered  earnestly.  He 
had  a  horror,  which  he  carried  to  a  foible,  of 
looking  like  anything  important  and  parochial.  He 
thought  that  he  approached  nearer  to  that  stamp 
daily.  He  had  a  general  aversion  from  being 
treated  like  a  grave  or  respectable  character,  and 
kept  a  wary  eye  upon  the  advances  of  age  that 
should  so  entitle  him.  He  herded  always,  while  it 
was  possible,  with  people  younger  than  himself. 
He  did  not  confonn  to  the  march  of  time,  but  was 
dragged  along  in  the  procession.  His  manners 
lagged  behind  his  years.  He  was  too  much  of  the 
boy-man.  The  io^avzn'h'sneveTsa.te  gracefullyon  his 
shoulders.  The  impressions  of  infancy  had  burnt  into 
him,  and  he  resented  the  impertinence  of  manhood. 
These  were  weaknesses ;  but  such  as  they  were, 
they  are  a  key  to  explicate  some  of  his  writings. 


THE  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA. 


BLAKESMOOR    IN    H SHIRE. 

DO  not  know  a  pleasure  more  affecting 
than  to  range  at  will  over  the  deserted 
apartments  of  some  fine  old  family  man- 
sion. The  traces  of  extinct  grandeur 
admit  of  a  better  passion  than  envy  :  and  contem- 
plations on  the  great  and  good,  whom  we  fancy  in 
succession  to  have  been  its  inhabitants,  weave  for 
us  illusions,  incoinpatible  with  the  bustle  of  modern 
occupancy,  and  vanities  of  foolish  present  aristo- 
cracy. The  same  difference  of  feeling,  I  think,  at- 
tends us  between  entering  an  empty  and  a  crowded 
church.  In  the  latter  it  is  chance  but  some  present 
human  frailty — an  act  of  inattention  on  the  part  of 
some  of  the  auditory — or  a  trait  of  affectation,  or 
worse,  vain-glory,  on  that  of  the  preacher,  puts  us 
by  our  best  thoughts,  disharmonizing  the  place  and 
the  occasion.  But  wouldst  thou  know  the  beauty 
of  holiness  ? — go  alone  on  some  week-day,  borrow- 
ing the  keys  of  good  Master  Sexton,  traverse  the 
cool  aisles  of  some  country  church  :  think  of  the 
II.  B 


J  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

piety  that  has  kneeled  there — the  congregations,  old 
and  young,  that  have  found  consolation  there— the 
meek  pastor — the  docile  parishioner.  With  no  dis- 
turbing emotions,  no  cross  conflicting  comparisons, 
drink  in  the  tranquillity  of  the  place,  till  thou  thy- 
self become  as  fixed  and  motionless  as  the  marble 
effigies  that  kneel  and  weep  around  thee. 

Journeying  northward  lately,  I  could  not  resist 
going  some  few  miles  out  of  my  road  to  look  upon 
the  remains  of  an  old  great  house  with  which  I  had 
been  impressed  in  this  way  in  infancy.  I  was  ap- 
prised that  the  owner  of  it  had  lately  pulled  it 
down ;  still  I  had  a  vague  notion  that  it  could  not 
all  have  perished', — that  so  much  solidity  with  mag- 
nificence could  not  have  been  crushed  all  at  once 
into  the  mere  dust  and  rubbish  which  I  found  it. 

The  work  of  ruin  had  proceeded  with  a  swift 
hand  indeed,  and  the  demolition  of  a  few  weeks 
had  reduced  it  to — an  antiquity. 

I  was  astonished  at  the  indistinction  of  every- 
thing. Where  had  stood  the  great  gates  ?  What 
bounded  the  court-yard  ?  Whereabout  did  the  out- 
houses commence  ?  A  few  bricks  only  lay  as  re- 
presentatives of  that  which  was  so  stately  and  so 
spacious. 

Death  does  not  shrink  up  his  human  victim  at 
this  rate.  The  burnt  ashes  of  a  man  weigh  more 
in  their  proportion. 

Had  I  seen  these  brick-and-mortar  knaves  at 
their  process  of  destruction,  at  the  plucking  of 
every  panel  I  should  have  felt  the  varlets  at  my 
heart.  I  should  have  cried  out  to  them  to  spare  a 
plank  at  least  out  of  the  cheerful  store-room,  in 
whose  hot  window-seat  I  used  to  sit  and  read 
Cowley,  with  the  grass-plot  before,  and  the  hum  and 
flappings  of  that  one  solitaiy  wasp  that  ever  haunted 


BLAKESMOOR   IN  H SHIRE.  3 

it  about  me — it  is  in  mine  ears  now,  as  oft  as  sum- 
mer returns  ;  or  a  panel  of  the  yellow-room. 

Why,  every  plank  and  panel  of  that  house  for 
me  had  magic  in  it.  The  tapestried  bedrooms — 
tapestry  so  much  better  than  painting — not  adorning 
merely,  but  peopling  the  wainscots — at  which  child- 
hood ever  and  anon  would  steal  a  look,  shifting  its 
coverlid  (replaced  as  quickly)  to  exercise  its  tender 
courage  in  a  momentary  eye-encounter  with  those 
stern  bright  visages,  staring  reciprocally — all  Ovid 
on  the  walls,  in  colours  vivider  than  his  description. 
Acteeon  in  mid  sprout,  with  the  unappeasable  pru- 
dery of  Diana ;  and  the  still  more  provoking  and 
almost  culinary  coolness  of  Dan  Phoebus,  eel-fashion, 
deliberately  divesting  of  Marsyas. 

Then,  that  haunted  room — in  which  old  Mrs. 
Battle  died — whereinto  I  have  crept,  but  always  in 
the  daytime,  with  a  passion  of  fear;  and  a  sneaking 
curiosity,  terror-tainted,  to  hold  communication 
with  the  past. — How  shall  they  build  it  tip  again  ? 

It  was  an  old  deserted  place,  yet  not  so  long  de- 
serted that  the  traces  of  the  splendour  of  past  in- 
mates were  everywhere  apparent.  Its  furniture  was 
still  standing—even  to  the  tarnished  gilt  leather 
battledores,  and  crumbling  feathers  of  shuttlecocks 
in  the  nursery,  which  told  that  children  had  once 
played  there.  But  I  was  a  lonely  child,  and  had 
the  range  at  vv'ill  of  every  apartment,  knew  every 
nook  and  corner,  wondered  and  worr.hipped  every- 
where. 

The  solitude  of  childhood  is  not  so  much  the 
mother  of  thought  as  it  is  the  feeder  of  love,  ot 
silence,  and  admiration.  So  strange  a  passion  for 
the  place  possessed  me  in  those  years,  that,  though 
there  lay — I  shame  to  say  how  few  roods  distant 
from  the  mansion — half  hid  by  trees,  what  I  judged 


I,  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

some  romantic  lake,  such  was  the  spell  which  bound 
to  the  house,  and  such  my  carefulness  not  to  pass 
its  strict  and  proper  precincts,  that  the  idle  waters 
lay  unexplored  for  me ;  and  not  till  late  in  life,  cu- 
riosity prevailing  over  elder  devotion,  I  found,  to 
my  astonishment,  a  pretty  brawling  brook  had  been 
the  Lacus  Incognitus  of  my  infancy.  Variegated 
views,  extensive  prospects — and  those  at  no  great 
distance  from  the  house — I  was  told  of  such — what 
were  they  to  me,  being  out  of  the  boundaries  of  my 
Eden  ?  So  far  from  a  wish  to  roam,  I  would  have 
drawn,  methought,  still  closer  the  fences  of  my 
chosen  prison,  and  have  been  hemmed  in  by  a  yet 
securer  cincture  of  those  excluding  garden  walls. 
I  could  have  exclaimed  with  the  garden-loving 
poet — 

Bind  me,  ye  woodbines,  in  your  twines ; 
Curl  me  about,  ye  gadding  vines  ; 
And  oh  so  close  your  circles  lace. 
That  I  may  never  leave  this  place  ; 
But,  lest  your  fetters  prove  too  weak, 
Ere  I  your  silken  bondage  break, 
Do  you,  O  brambles,  chain  me  too. 
And,  courteous  briars,  nail  me  through.' 

I  was  here  as  in  a  lonely  temple.  Snug  fire-sides 
— the  low-built  roof — parlours  ten  feet  by  ten — 
frugal  boards,  and  all  the  homeliness  of  home — 
these  were  the  condition  of  my  birth— the  whole- 
some soil  which  I  was  planted  in.  Yet,  without 
impeachment  to  their  tenderest  lessons,  I  am  not 
sorry  to  have  had  glances  of  something  beyond, 
and  to  have  taken,  if  but  a  peep,  in  childhood,  at 
the  contrasting  accidents  of  a  great  fortune. 

To  have  the  feeling  of  gentility,  it  is  not  neces- 
sary to  have  been  born  gentle.     The  pride  of  an- 

'  rMarvell,  on  Appleton  House,  to  ths  Lord  Fairfax.] 


BLAKESMOOR   IN  H SHIRE.  ; 

cestry  may  be  had  on  cheaper  terms  than  to  be 
obliged  to  an  importunate  race  of  ancestors ;  and 
the  coatless  antiquary  in  his  unemblazoned  cell, 
revolving  the  long  line  of  a  Mowbray's  or  De 
Clifford's  pedigree,  at  those  sounding  names  may 
warm  himself  into  as  gay  a  vanity  as  those  who  do 
inherit  them.  The  claims  of  birth  are  ideal  merely, 
and  what  herald  shall  go  about  to  strip  me  of  an 
idea  ?  Is  it  trenchant  to  their  swords  ?  can  it  be 
hacked  off  as  a  spur  can  ?  or  torn  away  like  a  tar- 
nished garter  ? 

What,  else,  were  the  families  of  the  great  to  us  ? 
what  pleasure  should  we  take  in  their  tedious  gene- 
alogies, or  their  capitulatory  brass  monuments  ? 
What  to  us  the  uninterrupted  cuiTent  of  their 
bloods,  if  our  own  did  not  answer  within  us  to  a 
cognate  and  corresponding  elevation  ? 

Or  wherefore,  else,  O  tattered  and  diminished 
'Scutcheon  that  hung  upon  the  time-worn  walls  of 
thy  princely  stairs,  Blakesmoor  !  have  I  in  child- 
hood so  oft  stood  poring  upon  thy  mystic  characters 
— thy  emblematic  supporters,  with  their  prophetic 
"  Resurgam  " — till,  every  dreg  of  peasantry  purging 
off,  I  received  into  myself  Very  Gentility  ?  Thou 
wert  first  in  my  morning  eyes;  and  of  nights  hast 
detained  my  steps  from  bedward,  till  it  was  but  a 
step  from  gazing  at  thee  to  dreaming  on  thee. 

This  is  the  only  true  gentry  by  adoption;  the 
veritable  change  of  blood,  and  not  as  empirics  have 
fabled,  by  transfusion. 

Who  it  was  by  dying  that  had  earned  the  splen- 
did trophy,  I  know  not,  I  inquired  not ;  but  its 
fading  rags,  and  colours  cobweb-stained,  told  that 
its  subject  was  of  two  centuries  back. 

And  what  if  my  ancestor  at  that  date  was  some 
Damoetas, — feeding  flocks,  not  his  own,  upon  the 


6  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA. 

hills  of  Lincoln — did  I  in  less  earnest  vindicate  to 
myself  the  family  trappings  of  this  once  proud 
^gon  ?  repaying  by  a  backward  triumph  the  in- 
sults he  might  possibly  have  heaped  in  his  life-time 
upon  my  poor  pastoral  progenitor. 

If  it  were  presumption  so  to  speculate,  the  pre- 
sent owners  of  the  mansion  had  least  reason  to 
complain.  They  had  long  forsaken  the  old  house 
of  their  fathers  for  a  newer  trifle  ;  and  I  was  left  to 
appropriate  to  myself  what  images  I  could  pick  up, 
to  raise  my  fancy,  or  to  soothe  my  vanity. , 

I  was  the  true  descendant  of  those  old  W s, 

and  not  the  present  family  of  that  name,  who  had 
fled  the  old  waste  places. 

Mine  was  that  gallery  of  good  old  family  por- 
traits, which  as  I  have  gone  over,  giving  them  in 
fancy  my  own  family  name,  one — and  then  another 
— would  seem  to  smile,  reaching  forward  from  the 
canvas,  to  recognize  the  new  relationship ;  while 
the  rest  looked  grave,  as  it  seemed,  at  the  vacancy 
in  their  dwelling,  and  thoughts  of  fled  posterity. 

The  Beauty  with  the  cool  blue  pastoral  draper}', 
and  a  lamb — that  hung  next  the  great  bay  window 

— with  the  bright  yellow  H shire  hair,  and  eye 

of  watchet  hue — so  like  my  Alice  ! — I  am  persuaded 
she  was  a  true  Elia — Mildred  Elia,  I  take  it. 

[From  her,  and  from  my  passion  for  her — for  I 
first  learned  love  from  a  picture — Bridget  took  the 
hint  of  those  pretty  whimsical  lines,  which  thou 
mayst  see,  if  haply  thou  hast  never  seen  them, 
Reader,  in  the  margin.'  But  my  Mildred  grew  not 
old,  like  the  imaginary  Helen.] 

Mine,  too,  Blakesmoor,  was  thy  noble  Marble 
Hall,  with  its  mosaic  pavements,  and  its  Twelve 

'  Here  was  inserted  the  little  poem  by  Mary  Lamb,  called 
"Helen."— Ed. 


BLAKESMOOR  IN  H SHIRE.  7 

Caesars — stately  busts  in  marble— ranged  round  ; 
of  whose  countenances,  young  reader  of  faces  as  I 
was,  the  frowning  beauty  of  Nero,  I  remember, 
had  most  of  my  wonder ;  but  the  mild  Galba  had 
my  love.  There  they  stood  in  the  coldness  of  death, 
yet  freshness  of  immortality. 

Mine,  too,  thy  lofty  Justice  Hall,  with  its  one 
chair  of  authority,  high-backed  and  wickered,  once 
the  terror  of  luckless  poacher,  or  self-forgetful 
maiden — so  common  since,  that  bats  have  roosted 
in  it. 

Mine,  too, — whose  else? — thy  costly  fruit-garden, 
with  its  sun-baked  southern  wall ;  the  ampler  plea- 
sure-garden, rising  backwards  from  the  house  in 
triple  terraces,  with  flower-pots  now  of  palest  lead, 
save  that  a  speck  here  and  there,  saved  from  the 
elements,  bespake  their  pristine  state  to  have  been 
gilt  and  glittering ;  the  verdant  quarters  backwarder 
still ;  and,  stretching  still  beyond,  in  old  formality, 
thy  firry  wilderness,  the  haunt  of  the  squirrel,  and 
the  day-long  murmuring  wood-pigeon,  with  that 
antique  image  in  the  cenfre,  God  or  Goddess  I  wist 
not ;  but  child  of  Athens  or  old  Rome  paid  never 
a  sincerer  worship  to  Pan  or  to  Sylvanus  in  their 
native  groves,  than  I  to  that  fragmental  mystery. 

Was  it  for  this  that  I  kissed  my  childish  hands 
too  fervently  in  your  idol-worship,  walks  and  wind» 
ings  of  Blakesmoor  !  for  this,  or  what  sin  of  mine, 
has  the  plough  passed  over  your  pleasant  places  ? 
I  sometimes  think  that  as  men,  when  they  die,  do 
not  die  all,  so  of  their  extinguished  habitations 
there  may  be  a  hope — a  germ  to  be  revivified. 


POOR   RELATIONS. 


POOR  RELATION— is  the  most  irre- 
levant tiling  in  nature, — a  piece  of  im- 
pertinent correspondency, —  an  odious 
approximation, — a  haunting  conscience, 
— a  preposterous  shadow,  lengthening  in  the  noon- 
tide of  our  prosperity, — an  unwelcome  remem- 
brancer,— a  perpetually  recurring  mortification, — 
a  drain  on  your  purse, — a  more  intolerable  dun 
upon  your  pride, — a  drawback  upon  success, — a 
rebuke  to  your  rising, — a  stain  in  your  blood, — 
a  blot  on  your  'scutcheon,  — a  rent  in  your  garment, 
— a  death's  head  at  your  banquet,  — Agathocles'  pot, 

—  a  Mordecai  in  your  gate, — a  Lazarus  at  your 
door, — a  lion  in  your  path, — a  frog  in  your  cham- 
ber,— a  fly  in  your  ointment, — a  mote  in  your  eye, 

—  a  triumph  to  your  enemy, — an  apology  to  your 
friends, — the  one  thing  not  needful, — the  hail  in 
harvest, — the  ounce  of  sour  in  a  pound  of  sweet. 

He  is  known  by  his  knock.  Your  heart  telleth 
you  "That  is  Mr.  ."  A  rap,  between  fami- 
liarity and  respect ;  that  demands,  and  at  the  same 
time  seems  to  despair  of,  entertahunent.  He  en- 
tereth  smiling  and — embarrassed.  He  holdeth  out 
his  hand  to  you  to  shake,  and — draweth  it  back 
again.  He  casually  looketh  in  about  dinner-time 
—when  the  table  is  full.     He  offereth  to  go  away, 


POOR   RELATIONS.  9 

seeing  you  have  company — but  is  induced  to  stay. 
He  filleth  a  chair,  and  your  visitor's  two  children 
are  accommodated  at  a  side-table.  He  never 
Cometh  upon  open  days,  when  your  wife  says,  with 

some  complacency,  "  My  dear,  perhaps  Mr.  

will  drop  in  to-day."  He  remembereth  birth-days 
— and  professeth  he  is  fortunate  to  have  stumbled 
upon  one.  He  declareth  against  fish,  the  turbot 
being  small — yet  suffereth  himself  to  be  importuned  , 
into  a  slice,  against  his  iirst  resolution.  He  stick- 
eth  by  the  port — yet  will  be  prevailed  upon  to 
empty  the  remainder  glass  of  claret,  if  a  stranger 
press  it  upon  him.  He  is  a  puzzle  to  the  servants, 
who  are  fearful  of  being  too  obsequious  or  not  civil 
enough,  to  him.  The  guests  think  "they  have 
seen  him  before."  Eveiy  one  speculateth  upon  his 
cor.dition ;  and  the  most  part  take  him  to  be  a — 
tide-waiter.  He  calleth  you  by  your  Christian 
name,  to  imply  that  his  other  is  the  same  with 
your  own.  He  is  too  familiar  by  half,  yet  you 
wish  he  had  less  diffidence.  With  half  the  fami- 
liarity, he  might  pass  for  a  casual  dependent ;  with 
more  boldness,  he  would  be  in  no  danger  of  being 
taken  for  what  he  is.  He  is  too  humble  for  a  friend ; 
yet  taketh  on  him  more  state  than  befits  a  client. 
He  is  a  worse  guest  than  a  country  tenant,  inas- 
much as  he  bringeth  up  no  rent — yet  'tis  odds,  from 
his  garb  and  demeanour,  that  your  guests  take  him 
for  one.  He  is  asked  to  make  one  at  the  whist 
table ;  refuseth  on  the  score  of  poverty,  and— re- 
sents being  left  out.  When  the  company  break  up, 
he  proffereth  to  go  for  a  coach — and  lets  the  ser- 
vant go.  He  recollects  your  grandfather ;  and  will 
thrust  in  some  mean  and  quite  unimportant  anec- 
dote— of  the  family.  He  knew  it  when  it  was  not 
quite  so  flourishing  as  "he  is  blest  in  seeing  it  now." 


lo  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

He  reviveth  past  situations,  to  institute  what  he 
calleth — favourable  comparisons.  With  a  reflect- 
ing sort  ot  congratulation,  he  will  inquire  the  price 
of  your  furniture ;  and  insults  you  with  a  special 
commendation  of  your  window-curtains.  He  is  of 
opinion  that  the  urn  is  the  more  elegant  shape; 
but,  after  all,  there  was  something  more  comfort- 
able about  the  old  tea-kettle — which  you  must  re- 
member. He  dare  say  you  must  find  a  great  con- 
venience in  having  a  carriage  of  your  own,  and 
appealeth  to  your  lady  if  it  is  not  so.  Inquireth  if 
you  have  had  your  arms  done  on  vellum  yet ;  and 
did  not  know,  till  lately,  that  such-and-such  had 
been  the  crest  of  the  family.  His  memory  is  un- 
seasonable ;  his  compliments  perverse ;  his  talk  a 
trouble;  his  stay  pertinacious;  and  when  he  goeth 
away,  you  dismiss  his  chair  into  a  corner  as  pre- 
cipitately as  possible,  and  feel  fairly  rid  of  two 
nuisances. 

There  is  a  worse  evil  under  the  sun,  and  that  is 
— a  female  Poor  Relation.  You  may  do  some- 
thing with  the  other ;  you  may  pass  him  off  tole- 
rably well ;  but  your  indigent  she-relative  is  hope- 
less. "He  is  an  old  humorist,"  you  may  say, 
"and  affects  to  go  threadbare.  His  circumstances 
are  better  than  folks  would  take  them  to  be.  You 
are  fond  of  ha.ving  a  Character  at  your  table,  and 
truly  he  is  one."  But  in  the  indications  of  female 
poverty  there  can  be  no  disguise.  No  woman 
dresses  below  herself  from  caprice.  The  truth  must 
out  vrithout  shuffling.      "  She  is  plainly  related  to 

the  L 's;  or  what   does  she  at  their  house?" 

She  is,  in  all  probability,  your  wife's  cousin.  Nine 
times  out  of  ten,  at  least,  this  is  the  case. — Her 
garb  is  something  between  a  gentlewoman  and  a 
beggar,   yet    the   former  evidently  predominates. 


POOR   RELATIONS.  ii 

She  is  most  provokingly  humble,  and  ostentati- 
ously sensible  to  her  inferiority.  He  may  require 
to  be  repressed  sometimes — aliqumido  sufflaini- 
nandiis  erat — but  there  is  no  raising  her.  You 
send  her  soup  at  dinner,  and  she  begs  to  be  helped 

— after  the   gentlemen.      Mr.    requests   the 

honour  of  taking  wine  with  her;  she  hesitates  be- 
tween Port  and  Madeira,  and  chooses  the  former 
— because  he  does.  She  calls  the  servant  Sir;  and 
insists  on  not  troubling  him  to  hold  her  plate.  The 
housekeeper  patronizes  her.  The  children's  go- 
verness takes  upon  her  to  correct  her  when  she  has 
mistaken  the  piano  for  a  harpsichord. 

Richard  Amlet,  Esq.,  in  the  play,  is  a  notable 
instance  of  the  disadvantages  to  which  this  chime- 
rical notion  of  affinity  const itiitifig  a  claim  to  ac- 
quaintance, may  subject  the  spirit  of  a  gentleman. 
A  little  foolish  blood  is  all  that  is  betwixt  him  and 
a  lady  with  a  great  estate.  His  stars  are  perpe- 
tually crossed  by  the  malignant  maternity  of  an 
old  woman,  who  persists  in  calling  him  "  her  sou 
Dick."  But  she  has  wherewithal  in  the  end  to 
recompense  his  indignities,  and  float  him  again 
upon  the  brilliant  surface,  under  which  it  had  been 
her  seeming  business  and  pleasure  all  along  to  sink 
him.  All  men,  besides,  are  not  of  Dick's  tempera- 
ment.   I  knew  an  Amlet  in  real  life,  who,  wanting 

Dick's  buoyancy,  sank  indeed.     Poor  W was 

of  my  own  standing  at  Christ's,  a  fine  classic,  and 
a  youth  of  promise.  If  he  had  a  blemish,  it  was 
too  much  pride  ;  but  its  quality  was  inoffensive  ; 
it  was  not  of  that  sort  which  hardens  the  heart, 
and  serves  to  keep  inferiors  at  a  distance  ;  it  only 
sought  to  ward  off  derogation  from  itself.  It  was 
the  principle  of  self-respect  carried  as  far  as  it  could 
go,  without  infringing  upon  that  respect,  which  he 


12  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

would  have  every  one  else  equally  maintain  for  him- 
self. He  would  have  you  to  think  alike  with  him 
on  this  topic.  Many  a  quarrel  have  I  had  with 
him,  when  we  were  rather  older  boys,  and  our 
tallness  made  us  more  obnoxious  to  observation  in 
the  blue  clothes,  because  1  M'ould  not  thread  the 
alleys  and  blind  ways  of  the  town  with  him  to 
elude  notice,  when  we  have  been  out  together  on 
a  holiday  in  the  streets  of  this  sneering  and  prying 

metropolis.    W went,  sore  with  these  notions, 

to  Oxford,  where  the  dignity  and  sweetness  of  a 
scholar's  life  meeting  with  the  alloy  of  a  humble 
introduction,  wrought  in  him  a  passionate  devotion 
to  the  place,  with  a  profound  aversion  from  the  so- 
ciety. The  servitor's  gown  (worse  than  his  school 
array)  clung  to  him  with  Nessian  venom.  He 
thought  himself  ridiculous  in  a  garb,  under  which 
Latimer  must  have  walked  erect,  and  in  which 
Hooker,  in  his  young  days,  possibly  flaunted  in  a 
vein  of  no  discommendable  vanity.  In  the  depth 
of  college  shades,  or  in  his  lonely  chamber,  the 
poor  student  shrunk  from  observation.  He  found 
shelter  among  books,  which  insult  not ;  and  studies, 
that  ask  no  questions  of  a  youth's  finances.  He 
was  lord  of  his  library,  and  seldom  cared  for  look- 
ing out  beyond  his 'domains.  The  healing  influence 
of  studious  pursuits  was  upon  him  to  soothe  and  to 
abstract.  He  was  almost  a  healthy  man,  when  the 
waywardness  of  his  fate  broke  out  against  him 
with  a  second  and  worse  malignity.  The  father 
of  W had  hitherto  exercised  the  humble  pro- 
fession of  house-painter,  at  N ,  near  Oxford. 

A  supposed  interest  with  some  of  the  heads  of 
colleges  had  now  induced  him  to  take  up  his  abode 
in  that  city,  with  the  hope  of  being  employed  upon 
some  public  works  which  were  talked  of.     From 


POOR  RELATIONS.  13 

that  moment  I  read  in  the  countenance  of  the 
young  man  the  determination  which  at  length  tore 
him  from  academical  pursuits  for  ever.  To  a  per- 
son unacquainted  with  our  imiversities,  the  distance 
between  the  gownsmen  and  the  townsmen,  as  they 
are  called — the  trading  part  of  the  latter  especially 
— is  carried  to  an  excess  that  would  appear  harsh 

and   incredible.      The   temperament  of  W 's 

father   was  diametrically  the  reverse  of  his  own. 

Old  W was  a  little,  busy,  cringing  tradesman, 

who,  with  his  son  upon  his  arm,  would  stand  bow- 
ing and  scraping,  cap  in  hand,  to  anything  that 
wore  the  semblance  of  a  gown — insensible  to  the 
winks  and  opener  remonstrances  of  the  young  man, 
to  whose  chamber-fellow,  or  equal  in  standing, 
perhaps,  he  was  thus  obsequiously  and  gratuitously 
ducking.  Such  a  state  of  things  could  not  last. 
W must  change  the  air  of  Oxford,  or  be  suffo- 
cated. He  chose  the  former;  and  let  the  sturdy 
moralist,  who  strains  the  point  of  the  filial  duties 
as  high  as  they  can  bear,  censure  the  dereliction ; 
he  cannot  estimate  the   struggle.      I  stood  with 

W ,  the  last  afternoon  I  ever  saw  him,  under 

the  eaves  of  his  paternal  dwelling.  It  was  in  the 
fine  lane  leading  from  the  High  Street  to  the  back 

of  *  *  *  *  college,  where  W kept  his  rooms. 

He  seemed  thoughtful  and  more  reconciled.  I  ven- 
tured to  rally  him — finding  him  in  a  better  mood 
— upon  a  representation  of  the  Artist  Evangelist, 
which  the  old  man,  whose  affairs  were  beginning 
to  flourish,  had  caused  to  be  set  up  in  a  splendid 
sort  of  frame  over  his  really  handsome  shop,  either 
as  a  token  of  prosperity  or  badge  of  gratitude  to 

his  saint.    W looked  up  at  the  Luke,  and,  like 

Satan,  "knew  his  mounted  sign — and  fled."  A 
letter  on  his  father's  table,  the  next  morning,  an- 


14  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

nounced  that  he  had  accepted  a  commission  in  a 
regiment  about  to  embark  for  Portugal.  He  was 
among  the  first  who  perished  before  the  walls  of 
St.  Sebastian. 

I  do  not  know  how,  upon  a  subject  which  I 
began  with  treating  half  seriously,  I  should  have 
fallen  upon  a  recital  so  eminently  painful ;  but 
this  theme  of  poor  relationship  is  replete  with  so 
much  matter  for  tragic  as  well  as  comic  associa- 
tions, that  it  is  diflicult  to  keep  the  account  dis- 
tinct without  blending.  The  earliest  impressions 
which  I  received  on  this  matter  are  certainly  not 
attended  with  anything  painful,  or  very  humiliating, 
in  the  recalling.  At  my  father's  table  (no  very 
splendid  one)  was  to  be  found,  every  Saturday, 
the  mysterious  figure  of  an  aged  gentleman,  clothed 
in  neat  black,  of  a  sad  yet  comely  appearance. 
His  deportment  was  of  the  essence  of  gravity  ;  his 
words  few  or  none ;  and  I  was  not  to  make  a 
noise  in  his  presence.  I  had  little  inclination  to 
have  done  so — for  my  cue  was  to  admire  in  silence. 
A  particular  elbow-chair  was  appropriated  to  him, 
which  was  in  no  case  to  be  violated.  A  peculiar 
sort  of  sweet  pudding,  which  appeared  on  no  other 
occasion,  distinguished  the  days  of  his  coming.  I 
used  to  think  him  a  prodigiously  rich  man.  All 
I  could  make  out  of  him  was,  that  he  and  my 
father  had  been  schoolfellows,  a  world  ago,  at 
Lincoln,  and  that  he  came  from  the  Mint.  The 
Mint  I  knew  to  be  a  place  where  all  the  money 
was  coined — and  I  thought  he  was  the  owner  of 
all  that  money.  Awful  ideas  of  the  Tower  twined 
themselves  about  his  presence.  He  seemed  above 
human  infirmities  and  passions.  A  sort  of  melan- 
choly grandeur  invested  him.  From  some  inex 
plicable  doom  I  fancied  him  obliged  td  go  about 


POOR   RELAT/O.VS.  iS 

in  an  eternal  suit  of  mourning ;  a  captive  —  a 
stately  being  let  out  of  the  Tower  on  Saturdays. 
Often  have  I  wondered  at  the  temerity  of  my 
father,  who,  in  spite  of  an  habitual  general  respect 
which  we  all  in  common  manifested  towards  him, 
would  venture  now  and  then  to  stand  up  against 
him  in  some  argument  touching  their  youthful 
days.  The  houses  of  the  ancient  city  of  Lincoln 
are  divided  (as  most  of  my  readers  know)  between 
the  dwellers  on  the  hill  and  in  the  valley.  This 
marked  distinction  formed  an  obvious  division 
between  the  boys  who  lived  above  (however 
brought  together  in  a  common  school)  and  the 
boys  whose  paternal  residence  was  on  the  plain  ; 
a  sufficient  cause  of  hostility  in  the  code  of  these 
young  Grotiuses.  My  father  had  been  a  leading 
Mountaineer  ;  and  would  still  maintain  the  general 
superiority  in  skill  and  hardihood  of  the  Above 
Boys  (his  own  faction)  over  the  Beloiv  Boys  (so 
were  they  called),  of  which  party  his  contemporaiy 
had  been  a  chieftain.  Many  and  hot  were  the 
skirmishes  on  this  topic — the  only  one  upon  which 
the  old  gentleman  was  ever  brought  out — and  bad 
blood  bred  ;  even  sometimes  almost  to  the  recom- 
mencement (so  I  expected)  of  actual  hostilities. 
But  my  father,  who  scorned  to  insist  upon  advan- 
tages, generally  contrived  to  turn  the  conversation 
upon  some  adroit  by-commendation  of  the  old 
Minster ;  in  the  general  preference  of  which,  before 
all  other  cathedrals  in  the  island,  the  dweller  on 
the  hill,  and  the  plain-born,  could  meet  on  a  con- 
ciliating level,  and  lay  down  their  less  important 
differences.  Once  only  I  saw  the  old  gentleman 
really  ruffled,  and  I  remember  with  anguish  the 
thought  that  came  over  me  :  "  Perhaps  he  will 
never  come  here  again."     He  had  been  pressed  to 


t6  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

take  another  plate  of  the  viand,  which  I  have 
already  mentioned  as  the  indispensable  concomi- 
tant of  his  visits.  He  had  refused  with  a  resistance 
amounting  to  rigour,  when  my  aunt,  an  old  Lin- 
colnian,  but  who  had  something  of  this,  in  com- 
mon with  my  cousin  Bridget,  that  she  would  some- 
times press  civility  out  of  season  —  uttered  the 
following  memorable  application — "  Do  take  an- 
other slice,  Mr.  Billet,  for  you  do  not  get  pudding 
every  day."  The  old  gentleman  said  nothing  at 
the  time — but  he  took  occasion  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  when  some  argument  had  intervened 
between  them,  to  utter  with  an  emphasis  which 
chilled  the  company,  and  which  chills  me  now 
as  I  write  it — "Woman,  you  are  superannu- 
ated ! "  John  Billet  did  not  survive  long,  after 
the  digesting  of  this  affront ;  but  he  survived 
long  enough  to  assure  me  that  peace  was  actually 
restored  ;  and  if  I  remember  aright,  another  pud- 
ding was  discreetly  substituted  in  the  place  of  that 
which  had  occasioned  the  offence.  He  died  at  the 
Mint  (anno  1781)  where  he  had  long  held,  what 
he  accounted,  a  comfortable  independence;  and 
with  five  pounds,  fourteen  shillings,  and  a  penny, 
which  were  found  in  his  escritoir  after  his  decease, 
left  the  world,  blessing  God  that  he  had  enough 
to  bury  him,  and  that  he  had  never  been  obliged 
to  any  man  for  a  sixpence.  This  was — a  Poor 
Relation. 


DETACHED  THOUGHTS  ON  BOOKS 
AND    READING. 


To  mind  the  inside  of  a  book  is  to  entertain  one's  self  with 
the  forced  product  of  another  man's  brain.  Now  I  think  a 
man  of  quahty  and  breeding  may  be  much  amused  with  the 
natural  sprouts  of  his  own. — Lord  Foppington,  in  "  The 
Relapse." 

i  N  ingenious  acquaintance  of  my  own  was 
so  much  struck  with  this  bright  sally  of 
his  Lordship,  that  he  has  left  off  reading 
altogether,  to  the  great  improvement  of 
his  originality.  At  the  hazard  of  losing  some  credit 
on  this  head,  I  must  confess  that  I  dedicate  no  in- 
considerable portion  of  my  time  to  other  people's 
thoughts.  I  dream  away  my  life  in  others'  specu- 
lations. I  love  to  lose  myself  in  other  men's  minds. 
When  I  am  not  walking,  I  am  reading  ;  I  camiot 
sit  and  think.     Books  think  for  me. 

I  have  no  repugnances.  Shaftesbury  is  not  too 
genteel  for  me,  nor  Jonathan  Wild  too  low.  I  can 
read  anything  which  I  call  a  book.  There  are 
things  in  that  shape  which  I  cannot  allow  for  such. 

In  this  catalogue  of  books  whuh  are  no  books — 
biblia  a-biblia — I  reckon  Court  Calendars,  Direc- 
tories, Pocket  Books  [the  Literary  excepted], 
Draught  Boards,  bound  and  lettered  on  the  back, 

II.  C 


i8  LAST  ESS  A  ys  OF  ELI  A. 

Scientific  Treatises,  Almanacs,  Statutes  at  Large  : 
the  works  of  Hume,  Gibbon,  Robertson,  Beattie, 
Soanie  Jenyns,  and  generally,  all  those  volumes 
which  *'  no  gentlenaan's  library  should  be  without :" 
the  Histories  of  Flavius  Josephus  (that  learned 
Jew),  and  Paley's  Moral  Philosophy.  With  these 
exceptions,  I  can  read  almost  anything.  I  bless 
my  stars  for  a  taste  so  catholic,  so  unexcluding. 

I  confess  that  it  moves  my  spleen  to  see  these 
things  in  books'  clothing  perched  upon  shelves,  like 
false  saints,  usurpers  of  true  shrines,  intruders  into 
the  sanctuary,  thrusting  out  the  legitimate  occu- 
pants. To  reach  down  a  well-bound  semblance  of 
a  volume,  and  hope  it  some  kindhearted  play-book, 
then,  opening  what  "seem  its  leaves,  '  to  come 
bolt  upon  a  withering  Population  Essay.  To  ex- 
pect a  Steele  or  a  Farquhar,  and  find — Adam 
Smith.  To  view  a  well-arranged  assortment  of 
blockheaded  Encyclopaedias  (Anglicanas  or  Me- 
tropolitanas)  set  out  in  an  array  of  russia,  or  mo- 
rocco, when  a  tithe  of  that  good  leather  would 
comfortably  re-clothe  my  shivering  folios,  would 
renovate  Paracelsus  himself,  and  enable  old  Ray- 
mund  Lully  to  look  like  himself  again  in  the  world. 
I  never  see  these  impostors,  but  I  long  to  strip 
them,  to  warm  my  ragged  veterans  in  their  spoils. 

To  be  strong-backed  and  neat-bound  is  the  de- 
sideratum of  a  volume.  Magnificence  comes  after. 
This,  when  it  can  be  afforded,  is  not  to  be  lavished 
upon  all  kinds  of  books  indiscriminately.  I  would 
not  dress  a  set  of  magazines,  for  instance,  in  full 
suit.  The  dishabille,  or  half  binding  (with  russia 
backs  ever)  is  our  costume.  A  Shakspeare  or  a 
Milton  (unless  the  first  editions),  it  were  mere  fop- 
pery to  trick  out  in  gay  apparel.  The  possession 
of  them  confers  no  distinction.     The  exterior  of 


ON  BOOKS  AND   READING.  ig 

them  (the  things  themselves  being  so  common), 
strange  to  say,  raises  no  sweet  emotions,  no  tick- 
ling sense  of  property  in  the  owner.  Thomson's 
Seasons,  again,  looks  best  (I  maintain  it)  a  little 
torn  and  dog's-eared.  How  beautiful  to  a  genuine 
lover  of  reading  are  the  sullied  leaves,  and  worn- 
out  appearance,  nay,  the  very  odour  (beyond  russia) 
if  we  would  not  forget  kind  feelings  in  fastidiousness, 
of  an  old  "Circulating  Library"  Tom  Jones,  or 
Vicar  of  Wakefield  !  How  they  speak  of  the  thou- 
sand thumbs  that  have  turned  over  their  pages  with 
delight  !— of  the  lone  sempstress,  whom  they  may 
have  cheered  (milliner,  or  harder-working  mantua- 
maker)  after  her  long  day's  needle-toil,  running  far 
into  midnight,  when  she  has  snatched  an  hour,  ill 
spared  from  sleep,  to  steep  her  cares,  as  in  some 
Lethean  cup,  in  spelling  out  their  enchanting  con- 
tents !  Who  would  have  them  a  whit  less  soiled  ? 
What  better  condition  could  we  desire  to  see  them 
in? 

In  some  respects  the  better  a  book  is,  the  less  it 
demands  from  binding.  Fielding,  Smollett,  Sterne, 
and  all  that  class  of  perpetually  self- reproductive 
volumes — Great  Nature's  Stereotypes — we  see  them 
individually  perish  with  less  regret,  because  we 
know  the  copies  of  them  to  be  "  eterne."  But  where 
a  book  is  at  once  both  good  and  rare — where  the 
individual  is  almost  the  species,  and  when  that 
perishes, 

We  know  not  where  is  that  Promethean  torch 
That  can  its  light  relumine, — 

such  a  book,  for  instance,  as  the  Life  of  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle,  by  his  Duchess — no  casket  is  rich 
enough,  no  casing  sufficiently  durable,  to  honour 
and  keep  safe  such  a  j.ewel. 


20  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

Not  only  rare  volumes  of  this  description,  which 
seem  hopeless  ever  to  be  reprinted,  but  old  editions 
of  writers,  such  as  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  Bishop  Tay- 
lor, Milton  in  his  prose  works.  Fuller — of  whom 
we  have  reprints,  yet  the  books  themselves,  though 
they  go  about,  and  are  talked  of  here  and  there, 
we  know  have  not  endenizened  themselves  (nor 
possibly  ever  will)  in  the  national  heart,  so  as  to 
become  stock  books — it  is  good  to  possess  these  in 
durable  and  costly  covers.  I  do  not  care  for  a  First 
Folio  of  Shakspeare.  [You  cannot  make  a  pet 
book  of  an  author  whom  everybody  reads.]  I 
rather  prefer  the  common  editions  of  Rowe  and 
Tonson,  without  notes,  and  with  plates,  which, 
being  so  execrably  bad,  serve  as  maps  or  modest 
remembrancers,  to  the  text  ;  and,  without  pretend- 
ing to  any  supposable  emulation  with  it,  are  so 
much  better  than  the  Shakspeare  gallery  engravings 
which  did.  I  have  a  community  of  feeling  with 
my  countryman  about  his  Plays,  and  I  like  those 
editions  of  him  best  which  have  been  oftenest 
tumbled  about  and  handled. — On  the  contrary,  I 
cannot  read  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  but  in  Folio. 
The  Octavo  editions  are  painful  to  look  at.  I  have 
no  sympathy  with  them.  If  they  were  as  much 
read  as  the  current  editions  of  the  other  poet,  I 
should  prefer  them  in  that  shape  to  the  older  one. 
I  do  not  know  a  more  heartless  sight  than  the  re- 
print of  the  Anatomy  of  Melancholy.  What  need 
was  there  of  unearthing  the  bones  of  that  fantastic 
old  great  man,  to  expose  them  in  a  winding-sheet 
of  the  newest  fashion  to  modem  censure?  what 
hapless  stationer  could  dream  of  Burton  ever  be- 
coming popular? — The  wretched  Malone  could 
not  do  worse,  when  he  bribed  the  sexton  of  Strat- 
ford church  to  let  him  whitewash  the  painted  effigy 


ON  BOOKS  AND  READING.  21 

of  old  Shakspeare,  which  stood  there,  in  rude  but 
lively  fashion  depicted,  to  the  very  colour  of  the 
cheek,  the  eye,  the  eyebrow,  hair,  the  very  dress 
he  used  to  wear — the  only  authentic  testimony  we 
had,  however  imperfect,  of  these  curious  parts  and 
parcels  of  him.  They  covered  him  over  with  a 
coat  of  white  paint.  By ,  if  I  had  been  a  jus- 
tice of  peace  for  Warwickshire,  I  would  have  clapt 
both  commentator  and  sexton  fast  in  the  stocks,  for 
a  pair  of  meddling  sacrilegious  varlets. 

I  think  I  see  them  at  their  work — these  sapient 
trouble-tombs. 

Shall  I  be  thought  fantastical  if  I  confess  that 
the  names  of  some  of  our  poets  sound  sweeter,  and 
have  a  finer  relish  to  the  ear — to  mine,  at  least — 
than  that  of  Milton  or  of  Shakspeare  ?  It  may  be 
that  the  latter  are  more  staled  and  rung  upon  in 
common  discourse.  The  sweetest  names,  and  which 
carry  a  perfume  in  the  mention,  are.  Kit  Marlowe, 
Drayton,  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  and  Cowley. 

Much  depends  upon  when  and  wkere  you  read  a 
book.  In  the  five  or  six  impatient  minutes,  before 
the  dinner  is  quite  ready,  who  would  think  of  tak- 
ing up  the  Fairy  Queen  for  a  stop-gap,  or  a  volume 
of  Bishop  Andrewes'  sermons  ? 

Milton  almost  requires  a  solemn  service  of  music 
to  be  played  before  you  enter  upon  him.  But  he 
brings  his  music,  to  which,  who  listens,  had  need 
bring  docile  thoughts,  and  purged  ears. 

Winter  evenings — the  world  shut  out — with  less 
of  ceremony  the  gentle  Shakspeare  enters.  At  such 
a  season  the  Tempest,  or  his  own  Winter's  Tale — 

These  two  poets  you  cannot  avoid  reading  aloud 
— to  yourself,  or  (as  it  chances)  to  some  single  per- 
son listening.  More  than  one — and  it  degenerates 
into  an  audience. 


2r  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

Books  of  quick  interest,  that  hurry  on  for  inci- 
dents, are  for  the  eye  to  glide  over  only.  It  will  not 
do  to  read  them  out.  I  could  never  listen  to  even  the 
better  kind  of  modem  novels  writhout  extreme  irk- 
someness. 

A  newspaper,  read  out,  is  intolerable.  In  some 
of  the  Bank  offices  it  is  the  custom  (to  save  so  much 
individual  time)  for  one  of  the  clerks — who  is  the 
best  scholar — to  commence  upon  the  Times  or  the 
Chronicle  and  recite  its  entire  contents  aloud,  pro 
bono  publico.  With  every  advantage  of  lungs  and 
elocution,  the  effect  is  singularly  vapid.  In  barbers' 
shops  and  public-houses  a  fellow  will  get  up  and 
spell  out  a  paragraph,  which  he  communicates  as 
some  discovery.  Another  follows  with  his  selection. 
So  the  entire  journal  transpires  at  length  by  piece- 
meal. Seldom-readers  are  slow  readers,  and,  with- 
out this  expedient,  no  one  in  the  company  would 
probably  ever  travel  through  the  contents  of  a  whole 
paper. 

Newspapers  always  excite  curiosity.  No  one 
ever  lays  one  down  without  a  feeling  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

What  an  eternal  time  that  gentleman  in  black,  at 
Nando's,  keeps  the  paper  !  I  am  sick  of  hearing 
the  waiter  bawling  out  incessantly,  "The  Chronicle 
is  in  hand.  Sir. " 

[As  in  these  little  diurnals  I  generally  skip  the 
Foreign  News,  the  Debates  and  the  Politics,  I  find 
the  Mornifig  Herald  by  far  the  most  entertaining 
of  them.  It  is  an  agreeable  miscellany  rather  than 
a  newspaper.] 

Coming  into  an  inn  at  night — having  ordered 
your  supper— what  can  be  more  delightful  than  to 
find  lying  in  the  window-seat,  left  there  time  out  of 
mind  by  the  carelessness  of  some  former  guest — 


ON  BOOKS  AND  READING.  33 

two  or  three  numbers  of  the  old  Town  and  Countiy 
Magazine,  with  its  amusing  tete-i-tite  pictures — 

"The  Royal  Lx)ver  and  Lady  G ;"    "The 

Melting  Platonic  and  the  old  Beau," — and  such- 
like antiquated  scandal  ?  Would  you  exchange  it — 
at  that  time,  and  in  that  place — for  a  better  book  ? 

Poor  Tobin,  who  latterly  fell  blind,  did  not  regret 
it  so  much  for  the  weightier  kinds  of  reading — the 
Paradise  Lost,  or  Comus,  he  could  have  Kead  to 
him — but  he  missed  the  pleasure  of  skimming  over 
with  his  own  eye  a  magazine,  or  a  light  pamphlet. 

I  should  not  care  to  be  caught  in  the  serious 
avenues  of  some  cathedral  alone,  and  reading  Can- 
dide. 

I  do  not  remember  a  more  whimsical  surprise 
than  having  been  once  detected — by  a  familiar 
damsel — reclined  at  my  ease  upon  the  grass,  on 
Primrose  Hill  (her  Cythera)  reading  —  Pamela. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  book  to  make  a  man 
seriously  ashamed  at  the  exposure  ;  but  as  she 
seated  herself  down  by  me,  and  seemed  determined 
to  read  in  company,  I  could  have  wished  it  had 
been — any  other  book.  We  read  on  very  sociably 
for  a  few  pages  ;  and,  not  finding  the  author  much 
to  her  taste,  she  got  up,  and — went  away.  Gentle 
casuist,  I  leave  it  to  thee  to  conjecture,  whether  the 
blush  (for  there  was  one  between  us)  was  the  pro- 
perty of  the  nymph  or  the  swain  in  this  dilemma. 
From  me  you  shall  never  get  the  secret. 

I  am  not  much  a  friend  to  out-of-doors  reading. 
I  cannot  settle  my  spirits  to  it.  I  knew  a  Unitarian 
minister,  who  was  generally  to  be  seen  upon  Snow 
Hill  (as  yet  Skinner's  Street  was  not),  between  the 
hours  of  ten  and  eleven  in  the  morning,  studying  a 
volume  of  Lardner.  I  own  this  to  have  been  a 
strain  of  abstraction  beyond  my  reach,     I  used  to 


14  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

admire  how  he  sidled  along,  keeping  clear  of  secu- 
lar contacts.  An  illiterate  encounter  with  a  porter's 
knot,  or  a  bread  basket,  would  have  quickly  put  to 
flight  all  the  theology  I  am  master  of,  and  have  left 
me  worse  than  indifferent  to  the  five  points. 

[I  was  once  amused  —  there  is  a  pleasure  in 
affecting  affectation  —  at  the  indignation  of  a 
crowd  that  was  jostling  in  with  me  at  the  pit- 
door  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  to  have  a  sight 
of  Master  Betty — then  at  once  in  his  dawn  and 
his  meridian  —  in  Hamlet.  I  had  been  invited, 
quite  unexpectedly,  to  join  a  party,  whom  I  met 
near  the  door  of  the  playhouse,  and  I  happened  to 
have  in  my  hand  a  large  octavo  of  Johnson  and 
Steevens's  Skaksfeare,  which,  the  time  not  admit- 
ting of  my  carrying  it  home,  of  course  went  with 
me  to  the  theatre.  Just  in  the  very  heat  and  pres- 
sure of  the  doors  opening— the  rush,  as  they  term 
it— I  deliberately  held  the  volume  over  my  head, 
open  at  the  scene  in  vi-hich  the  young  Roscius  had 
been  most  cried  up,  and  quietly  read  by  the  lamp- 
light. The  clamour  became  universal.  "The 
affectation  of  the  fellow,"  cried  one.  "Look  at 
that  gentleman  reading,  papa,"  squeaked  a  young 
lady,  who,  in  her  admiration  of  the  novelty,  almost 
forgot  her  fears.  I  read  on.  "  He  ought  to  have 
his  book  knocked  out  of  his  hand, "  exclaimed  a 
pursy  cit,  whose  arms  were  too  fast  pinioned  to  his 
side  to  suffer  him  to  execute  his  kind  intention. 
Still  I  read  on— and,  till  the  time  came  to  pay  my 
money,  kept  as  unmoved  as  Saint  Anthony  at  his 
holy  offices,  with"  the  satyrs,  apes,  and  hobgoblins, 
mopping,  and  making  mouths  at  him,  in  the  pic- 
ture, while  the  good  man  sits  as  undisturbed  at  the 
sight  as  if  he  were  the  sole  tenant  of  the  desert. — 
The  individual  rabble  (I  recognized  more  than  one 


ON  BOOKS  AND  READING.  25 

of  their  ugly  faces)  had  damned  a  slight  piece  of 
mine  a  few  nights  before,  and  I  was  determined 
the  culprits  should  not  a  second  time  put  me  out  of 
countenance.] 

There  is  a  class  of  street  readers,  whom  I  can 
never  contemplate  without  affection — the  poor  gen- 
try, who,  not  having  wherewithal  to  buy  or  hire  a 
book,  filch  a  little  learning  at  the  open  stalJs— the 
owner,  with  his  hard  eye,  casting  envious  looks  at 
them  all  the  while,  and  thinking  when  they  will 
have  done.  Venturing  tenderly,  page  after  page, 
expecting  every  moment  when  he  shall  interpose 
his  interdict,  and  yet  unable  to  deny  themselves  the 
gratification,  they  "  snatch  a  fearful  joy."     Martin 

B ,  in  this  way,  by  daily  fragments,  got  through 

two  volumes  of  Clarissa,  when  the  stall-keeper 
damped  his  laudable  ambition,  by  asking  him  (it 
was  'in  his  younger  days)  whether  he  meant  to  pur- 
chase the  work.  M.  declares,  that  under  no  cir- 
cumstances in  his  life  did  he  ever  peruse  a  book 
with  half  the  satisfaction  which  he  took  in  those 
uneasy  snatches.  A  quaint  pofetess  of  our  day  has 
moralized  upon  this  subject  in  two  very  touching  but 
homely  stanzas ; 

I  saw  a  boy  with  eager  eye 

Open  a  book  upon  a  stall. 

And  read,  as  he'd  devour  it  all ; 

Which,  when  the  stall-man  did  espy, 

Soon  to  the  boy  I  heard  him  call, 

' '  You  Sir,  you  never  buy  a  book, 

Therefore  in  one  you  shall  not  look." 

The  boy  pass'd  slowly  on,  and  with  a  sigh 

He  wish'd  he  never  had  been  taught  to  read. 

Then  of  the  old  churl's  books  he  should  have  had  ao  need. 

Of  sufferings  the  poor  have  many 
Which  never  can  the  rich  annoy. 
I  soon  perceived  another  boy. 
Who  look'd  as  if  he  had  not  any 


LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

Food,  for  that  day  at  least — enjoy 

The  sight  of  cold  meat  in  a  tavern  larder. 

This  boy's  case,  then  thought  I,  is  surely  harder. 

Thus  hungry,  longing,  thus  without  a  penny. 

Beholding  choice  of  dainty-dressfed  meat : 

No  wonder  if  he  wish  he  ne'er  had  learn 'd  to  eat. 


STAGE    ILLUSION. 


PLAY  is  said  to  be  well  or  ill  acted,  in 
proportion  to  the  scenical  illusion  pro- 
duced.    Whether  such  illusion  can  in 

any  case  be  perfect,  is  not  the  question. 

The  nearest  approach  to  it,  we  are  told,  is  when 
the  actor  appears  wholly  unconscious  of  the  pre- 
sence of  spectators.  In  tragedy — in  all  which  is  to 
affect  the  feelings — this  undivided  attention  to 
his  stage  business  seems  indispensable.  Yet  it  is, 
in  fact,  dispensed  with  every  day  by  our  cleverest 
tragedians  ;  and  while  these  references  to  an  au- 
dience, in  the  shape  of  rant  or  sentiment,  are  not 
too  frequent  or  palpable,  a  sufficient  quantity  of 
illusion  for  the  purposes  of  dramatic  interest  may 
be  said  to  be  produced  in  spite  of  them.  But, 
tragedy  apart,  it  may  be  inquired  whether,  in  cer- 
tain characters  in  comedy,  especially  those  which 
are  a  little  extravagant,  or  which  involve  some 
notion  repugnant  to  the  moral  sense,  it  is  not  a 
proof  of  the  highest  skill  in  the  comedian  when, 
without  absolutely  appealing  to  an  audience,  he 
keeps  up  a  tacit  understanding  with  them  ;  and 
makes  them,  unconsciously  to  themselves,  a  party 
in  the  scene.  The  utmost  nicety  is  required  in  the 
mode  of  doing  this  ;  but  we  speak  only  of  the  great 
artists  in  the  profession. 


28  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  EL/A. 

The  most  mortifying  infinnity  in  human  nature, 
to  feel  in  ourselves,  or  to  contemplate  in  another,  is, 
perhaps,  cowardice.  To  see  a  coward  done  to  the 
life  upon  a  stage  would  produce  anything  but  mirth. 
Yet  we  most  of  us  remember  Jack  Bannister's  cow- 
ards. Could  anything  be  more  agreeable,  more 
pleasant  ?  We  loved  the  rogues.  How  was  this 
effected  but  by  the  exquisite  art  of  the  actor  in  a 
perpetual  sub-insinuation  to  us,  the  spectators,  even 
in  the  extremity  of  the  shaking  fit,  that  he  was  not 
half  such  a  coward  as  we  took  him  for  ?  We  saw  all 
the  common  symptoms  of  the  malady  upon  him  ; 
the  quivering  lip,  the  cowering  knees,  the  teeth 
chattering  ;  and  could  have  sworn  ' '  that  man  was 
frightened."  But  we  forgot  all  the  while — or  kept 
it  almost  a  secret  to  ourselves — that  he  never  once 
lost  his  self-possession ;  that  he  let  out,  by  a  thou- 
sand droll  looks  and  gestures — meant  at  tis,  and 
not  at  all  supposed  to  be  visible  to  his  fellows  in 
the  scene,  that  his  confidence  m  his  own  resources 
had  never  once  deserted  him.  Was  this  a  genuine 
picture  of  a  coward  ;  or  not  rather  a  likeness,  which 
the  clever  artist  contrived  to  palm  upon  us  instead 
of  an  original  ;  while  we  secretly  connived  at  the 
delusion  for  the  purpose  of  greater  pleasure,  than  a 
more  genuine  counterfeiting  of  the  imbecility,  help- 
lessness, and  utter  self-desertion,  which  we  know  to 
be  concomitants  of  cowardice  in  real  life,  could 
have  given  us  ? 

Why  are  misers  so  hateful  in  the  world,  and  so 
endurable  on  the  stage,  but  because  the  skilful 
actor,  by  a  sort  of  sub-reference,  rather  than  direct 
appeal  to  us,  disarms  the  character  of  a  great  deal 
of  its  odiousness,  by  seeming  to  engage  our  com- 
passion for  the  insecure  tenure  by  which  he  holds  '* 
his  money-bags  and  parchments  ?    By  this  subtle 


STAGE  ILLUSION.  sq 

vent  half  of  the  hatefulness  of  the  character  — 
the  self-closeness  with  which  in  real  life  it  coils 
itself  up  from  the  synjpathies  of  men—  evaporates. 
The  miser  becomes  sympathetic  ;  z.e. ,  is  no  genuine 
miser.  Here  again  a  diverting  likeness  is  substi- 
tuted for  a  veiy  disagreeable  reality. 

Spleen,  irritability  —  the  pitiable  infirmities  of 
old  men,  which  produce  only  pain  to  behold  in 
the  realities,  counterfeited  upon  a  stage,  divert  not 
altogether  for  the  comic  appendages  to  them,  but 
in  part  from  an  inner  conviction  that  they  are  dein^ 
acted  before  us  ;  that  a  likeness  only  is  going  on, 
and  not  the  thing  itself  They  please  by  being  done 
under  the  life,  or  beside  it ;  not  to  the  life.  When 
Gattie  acts  an  old  man,  is  he  angry  indeed  ?  or 
only  a  pleasant  counterfeit,  just  enough  of  a  likeness 
to  recognize,  without  pressing  upon  us  the  uneasy 
sense  of  a  reality  ? 

Comedians,  paradoxical  as  it  may  seem,  may  be 
too  natural.  It  was  the  case  with  a  late  actor. 
Nothing  could  be  more  earnest  or  true  than  the 
manner  of  Mr.  Emery  ;  this  told  excellently  in  his 
Tyke,  and  characters  of  a  tragic  cast.  But  when  he 
carried  the  same  rigid  exclusiveness  of  attention  to 
the  stage  business,  and  wilful  blindness  and  ob- 
livion of  everj'thing  before  the  curtain  into  his 
comedy,  it  produced  a  harsh  and  dissonant  effect. 
He  was  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest  of  the  dramatis 
fiersonce.  There  was  as  little  link  between  him  and 
them,  as  betwixt  himself  and  the  audience.  He 
was  a  third  estate — dry,  repulsive,  and  unsocial  to 
all.  Individually  considered,  his  execution  was 
masterly.  But  comedy  is  not  this  unbending  thing ; 
for  this  reason,  that  the  same  degree  of  credibility 
*>is  not  required  of  it  as  to  serious  scenes.  The  de- 
grees of  credibility  demanded  to  the  two  things 


30  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

may  be  illustrated  by  the  different  sort  of  truth 
which  we  expect  when  a  man  tells  us  a  mournful  or 
a  merry  story.  If  we  suspect  the  former  of  false- 
hood in  any  one  tittle,  we  reject  it  altogether.  Our 
tears  refuse  to  flow  at  a  suspected  imposition.  But 
the  teller  of  a  mirthful  tale  has  latitude  allowed 
him.  We  are  content  with  less  than  absolute  truth. 
Tis  the  same  with  dramatic  illusion.  We  confess 
we  love  in  comedy  to  see  an  audience  naturalized 
behind  the  scenes — taken  into  the  interest  of  the 
drama,  welcomed  as  bystanders,  however.  There 
is  something  ungracious  in  a  comic  actor  holding 
himself  aloof  from  all  participation  or  concern  with 
those  who  are  come  to  be  diverted  by  him.  Mac- 
beth must  see  the  dagger,  and  no  ear  but  his  own 
be  told  of  it ;  but  an  old  fool  in  farce  may  think  he 
sees  something,  and  by  conscious  words  and  looks 
express  it,  as  plainly  as  he  can  speak,  to  pit,  box, 
and  gallery.  When  an  impertinent  in  tragedy,  an 
Osric,  for  instance,  breaks  in  upon  the  serious 
passions  of  the  scene,  we  approve  of  the  contempt 
with  which  he  is  treated.  But  when  the  pleasant 
impertinent  of  comedy,  in  a  piece  purely  meant  to 
give  delight,  and  raise  mirth  out  of  whimsical  per- 
plexities, worries  the  studious  man  with  taking  up 
his  leisure,  or  making  his  house  his  home,  the 
same  sort  of  contempt  expressed  (however  natural) 
would  destroy  the  balance  of  delight  in  the  spec- 
tators. To  make  the  intrusion  comic,  the  actor 
who  plays  the  annoyed  man  must  a  little  desert 
nature  ;  he  must,  in  short,  be  thinking  of  the 
audience,  and  express  only  so  much  dissatis- 
faction and  peevishness  as  is  consistent  with  the 
pleasure  of  comedy.  In  other  words,  his  perplexity 
must  seem  half  put  on.  If  he  repel  the  intruder 
with  the  sober  set  face  of  a  man  in  earnest,  and 


STAGE  ILLUSION.  31 

more  especially  if  he  deliver  his  expostulations  in 
a  tone  which  in  the  world  must  necessarily  provoke 
a  duel,  his  real-life  manner  will  destroy  the  whim- 
sical and  purely  dramatic  existence  of  the  other 
character  (which  to  render  it  comic  demands  an 
antagonist  comicality  on  the  part  of  the  character 
opposed  to  it),  and  convert  what  was  meant  for 
mirth,  rather  than  belief,  into  a  downright  piece 
of  impertinence  indeed,  which  would  raise  no  diver- 
sion in  us,  but  rather  stir  pain,  to  see  inflicted  in 
earnest  upon  any  worthy  person.  A  very  judicious 
actor  (in  most  of  his  parts)  seems  to  have  fallen 
into  an  error  of  this  sort  in  his  playing  with  Mr. 
Wrench  in  the  farce  of  Free  and  Easy. 

Many  instances  would  be  tedious  ;  these  may 
suffice  to  show  that  comic  acting  at  least  does  not 
always  demand  from  the  performer  that  strict  ab- 
straction from  all  reference  to  an  audience  which  is 
exacted  of  it ;  but  that  in  some  cases  a  sort  of  com- 
promise may  take  place,  and  all  the  purposes  of 
dramatic  delight  be  attained  by  a  judicious  under- 
standing, not  too  openly  announced,  between  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen — on  both  sides  of  the  curtain. 


TO    THE    SHADE    OF    ELLISTON. 


OYOUSEST  of  once  embodied  spirits, 
whither  at  length  hast  thou  flown  ?  tc 
what  genial  region  are  we  permitted  to 
conjecture  that  thou  hast  flitted  ? 

Art  thou  sowing  thy  wild  oats  yet  (the  har- 
vest-time was  still  to  come  with  thee)  upon  casual 
sands  of  Avernus?  or  art  thou  enacting  Rover 
(as  we  would  gladlier  think)  by  wandering  Elysian 
streams  ? 

This  mortal  frame,  while  thou  didst  play  thy 
brief  antics  amongst  us,  was  in  truth  anything  but 
a  prison  to  thee,  as  the  vain  Platonist  dreams  of 
this  body  to  be  no  better  than  a  county  gaol,  for- 
sooth, or  some  house  of  durance  vile,  whereof  the 
five  senses  are  the  fetters.  Thou  knewest  better 
than  to  be  in  a  hmry  to  cast  off  these  gyves  ;  and 
had  notice  to  quit,  I  fear,  before  thou  wert  quite 
ready  to  abandon  this  fleshy  tenement.  It  was  thy 
Pleasure-House,  thy  Palace  of  Dainty  Devices  : 
thy  Louvre,  or  thy  White- Hall. 

What  new  mysterious  lodgings  dost  thou  tenant 
now  ?  or  when  may  we  expect  thy  aerial  house- 
warming  ? 

Tartarus  we  know,  and  we  have  read  of  the 
Blessed  Shades  ;  now  cannot  I  intelligibly  fancy 
thee  in  either. 


TO   THE  SHADE   OF  ELLISTON.  33 

I-,  it  too  much  to  hazard  a  conjecture,  that  (as 
the  schoolmen  admitted  a  receptacle  apart  for 
Patriarchs  and  un-chrrsom  babes)  there  may  exist 
—not  far  perchance  from  that  store-house  of  all 
vanities,  which  Milton  saw  in  visions, — a  Limbo 
somewhere  for  Players  ?  and  that 

Up  thither  like  aerial  vapours  fly- 
Both  all  Stage  things,  and  all  that  in  Stage  things 
Built  their  fond  hopes  of  glory,  or  lasting  fame? 
All  the  unaccomplished  works  of  Authors'  hands, 
Abortive,  monstrous,  or  unkindly  mixed, 
Damn'd  upon  earth,  fleet  thither — 
Play,  Opera,  Farce,  with  all  their  trumpery.— 

There,  by  the  neighbouring  moon  (by  some  not 
improperly  supposed  thy  Regent  Planet  upon 
earth),  mayst  thou  not  still  be  acting  thy  mana- 
gerial pranks,  great  disembodied  Lessee?  but 
Lessee  still,  and  still  a  manager. 

In  Green  Rooms,  impervious  to  mortal  eye,  the 
muse  beholds  thee  wielding  posthumous  empire. 

Thin  ghosts  of  Figurantes  (never  plump  on  earth) 
circle  thee  in  endlessly,  and  still  their  song  is  Fie 
on  sinful  Phantasy  ! 

Magnificent  were  thy  capriccios  on  this  globe  of 
earth,  Robert  William  Elliston  !  for  as  yet 
we  know  not  thy  new  name  in  heaven. 

It  irks  me  to  think,  that^  stript  of  thy  regalities, 
thou  shouldst  ferry  over,  a  poor  forked  shade,  in 
crazy  Stygian  wherry.  Methinks  I  hear  the  old 
boatman,  paddling  by  the  weedy  wharf,  with 
raucid  voice,  bawling  "  ScuLLS,  ScuLLS  ! "  to 
which,  with  waving  hand,  and  majestic  action, 
thou  deignest  no  reply,  other  than  in  two  curt 
monosyllables,  "No:  Oars." 

But  the  laws  of  Pluto's  kingdom  know  small 
difference  between  king  and  cobbler;  manager  and 

II.  D 


U  LAST  ESSAi'S  OF  ELl^. 

call-boy  ;  and,  if  haply  your  dates  of  life  were  con- 
terminant,  you  are  quietly  taking  your  passage, 
cheek  by  cheek  (O  ignoble  levelling  of  Death)  with 
the  shade  of  some  recently  departed  candle-snuffer. 

But  mercy !  what  strippings,  what  tearing  off  of 
histrionic  robes,  and  private  vanities !  what  de- 
nudations to  the  bone,  before  the  surly  Ferryman 
will  admit  you  to  set  a  foot  within  his  battered 
lighter. 

Crowns,  sceptres ;  shield,  sword,  and  truncheon  : 
thy  own  coronation  robes  (for  thou  hast  brought 
the  whole  property-man's  wardrobe  with  thee, 
enough  to  sink  a  navy);  the  judge's  ermine  ;  the 
coxcomb's  wig;  the  snuff-box  d  la  Foppington — all 
must  overboard,  he  positively  swears — and  that 
Ancient  Mariner  brooks  no  denial  ;  for,  since  the 
tiresome  monodrame  of  the  old  Thracian  Harper, 
Charon,  it  is  to  be  believed,  hath  showTi  small 
taste  for  theatricals. 

Ay,  now  'tis  done.  You  are  just  boat-weight  ; 
pura  et  puta  anima. 

But,  bless  me,  how  little  you  look  ! 

So  shall  we  all  look — kings  and  keysars  — 
stripped  for  the  last  voyage. 

But  the  murky  rogue  pushes  off.  Adieu  plea- 
sant, and  thrice  pleasant  shade  !  with  my  parting 
thanks  for  many  a  heavy  hour  of  life  lightened  by 
thy  harmless  extravaganzas,  public  or  domestic. 

Rhadamanthus,  who  tries  the  lighter  causes 
below,  leaving  to  his  two  brethren  the  heavy 
calendars — honest  Rhadamanth,  always  partial  to 
players,  weighing  their  parti-coloured  existence 
here  upon  earth, —  making  account  of  the  few 
foibles,  that  may  have  shaded  their  real  life,  as  we 
call  it,  (though,  substantially,  scarcely  less  a  vapour 
than  thy  idlest  vagaries  upon  the  boards  of  the 


TO   THE  SHADE   OF  ELLISTON.  35 

Drury,)  as  but  of  so  many  eclioes,  natural  re-per- 
cussions, and  results  to  be  expected  from  the  as- 
sumed extravagances  of  thy  seco7idary  or  mock  life, 
nightly  upon  a  stage— after  a  lenient  castigation 
with  rods  lighter  than  of  those  Medusean  ringlets, 
but  just  enough  to  "  whip  the  offending  Adam  out 
of  thee, "  shall  courteously  dismiss  thee  at  the  right 
hand  gale — the  o.  p.  side  of  Hades — that  conducts 
to  masques  and  merry-makings  in  the  Theatre 
Royal  of  Proserpine. 

PI.AUDITO,    ET    VALETO. 


ELLISTONIANA. 


Y  acquaintance  with  the  pleasant  crea- 
ture, whose  loss  we  all  deplore,  was  but 
slight. 

My  first   introduction   to  E.,  which 

afterwards  ripened  into  an  acquaintance  a  little 
on  this  side  of  intimacy,  was  over  a  counter  in 
the  Leamington  Spa  Library,  then  newly  entered 
upon  by  a  branch  of  his  family.  E. ,  whom  nothing 
misbecame — to  auspicate,  I  suppose,  the  filial  con- 
cern, and  set  it  a-going  with  a  lustre — was  serving 
in  person  two  damsels  fair,  who  had  come  into  the 
shop  ostensibly  to  inquire  for  some  new  publica- 
tion, but  in  reality  to  have  a  sight  of  the  illustrious 
shopman,  hoping  some  conference.  With  what  an 
air  did  he  reach  down  the  volume,  dispassionately 
giving  his  opinion  of  the  worth  of  the  work  in 
question,  and  launching  out  into  a  dissertation  on 
its  comparative  merits  with  those  of  certain  publi- 
cations of  a  similar  stamp,  its  rivals !  his  enchanted 
customers  fairly  hanging  on  his  lips,  subdued  to 
their  authoritative  sentence.  So  have  I  seen  a 
gentleman  in  comedy  acting  the  shopman.  So 
Lovelace  sold  his  gloves  in  King  Street.  I  admired 
the  histrionic  art,  by  which  he  contrived  to  carry 
clean  away  every  notion  of  disgrace,  from  the  occu- 


ELLISTOKIANA.  37 

pation  he  had  so  generously  submitted  to  ;  and 
from  that  hour  I  judged  him,  with  no  after  repen- 
tance, to  be  a  person  with  whom  it  would  be  a 
felicity  to  be  more  acquainted. 

To  descant  upon  his  merits  as  a  Comedian  would 
be  superfluous.  With  his  blended  private  and  pro- 
fessional habits  alone  I  have  to  do  :  that  har- 
monious fusion  of  the  manners  of  the  player  into 
those  of  every-day  life,  which  brought  the  stage 
boards  into  streets  and  dining-parlours,  and  kept 
up  the  play  when  the  play  was  ended. — "  I  like 
Wrench,"  a  friend  was  saying  to  him  one  day, 
"  because  he  is  the  same  natural,  easy  creature,  on 
the  stage,  that  he  is  off.'"  "  My  case  exactly,"  re- 
torted EUiston — with  a  charming  forgetfulness, 
that  the  converse  of  a  proposition  does  not  always 
lead  to  the  same  conclusion — "  I  am  the  same  per- 
son (j^the  stage  that  I  am  ^«."  The  inference,  at 
first  sight,  seems  identical ;  but  examine  it  a  little, 
and  it  confesses  only,  that  the  one  perfomier  was 
never,  and  the  other  always,  acti7ig. 

And  in  truth  this  was  the  charm  of  Elliston's 
private  deportment.  You  had  spirited  performance 
always  going  on  before  your  eyes,  with  nothing  to 
pay.  As  where  a  monarch  takes  up  his  casual 
abode  for  the  night,  the  poorest  hovel  which  he 
honours  by  his  sleeping  in  it,  becomes  ipso  facio  for 
that  time  a  palace ;  so  wherever  Elliston  walked, 
sate,  or  stood  still,  there  was  the  theatre.  He 
carried  about  with  him  his  pit,  boxes,  and  galleries, 
and  set  up  his  portable  play- house  at  corners  ol 
streets,  and  in  the  market-places.  Upon  flintiest 
pavements  he  trod  the  boards  still ;  and  if  his 
theme  chanced  to  be  passionate,  the  green  baize 
carpet  of  tragedy  spontaneously  rose  beneath  his 
feet.     Now  this  was  hearty,  and  showed  a  love  for 


36  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA. 

his  art.  So  Apelles  always  painted — in  thought. 
So  G.  D.  always  poetizes.  I  hate  a  lukewarm 
artist.  I  have  known  actors — and  some  of  them  of 
Elliston's  own  stamp — who  shall  have  agreeably 
l)een  amusing  you  in  the  part  of  a  rake  or  a  cox- 
comb, through  the  two  or  three  hours  of  their  dra- 
matic existence  ;  but  no  sooner  does  the  curtain 
fall  with  its  leaden  clatter,  but  a  spirit  of  lead 
seems  to  seize  on  all  their  faculties.  They  emerge 
sour,  morose  persons,  intolerable  to  their  families, 
servants,  &c.  Another  shall  have  been  expanding 
your  heart  with  generous  deeds  and  sentiments,  till  it 
even  beats  with  yearnings  of  universal  sympathy  ; 
you  absolutely  long  to  go  home  and  do  some  good 
action.  The  play  seems  tedious,  till  you  can  get 
fairly  out  of  the  house,  and  realize  your  laudable 
intentions.  At  length  the  final  bell  rings,  and 
this  cordial  representative  of  all  that  is  amiable  in 
human  breasts  steps  forth — a  miser.  Elliston  was 
more  of  a  piece.  Did  he  play  Ranger?  and  did 
Ranger  fill  the  general  bosom  of  the  town  with 
satisfaction  ?  why  should  he  not  be  Ranger,  and 
diffuse  the  same  cordial  satisfaction  among  his 
private  circles  ?  with  his  temperament,  his  animal 
spirits,  his  good  nature,  his  follies  perchance, 
could  he  do  better  than  identify  himself  with  his 
impersonation  ?  Are  we  to  like  a  pleasant  rake,  or 
coxcomb,  on  the  stage,  and  give  ourselves  airs  of 
aversion  for  the  identical  character,  presented  to  us 
in  actual  life?  or  what  would  the  performer  have 
gained  by  divesting  himself  of  the  impersonation  ? 
Could  the  man  Elliston  have  been  essentially  dif- 
ferent from  his  part,  even  if  he  had  avoided  to  re- 
flect to  us  studiously,  in  private  circles,  the  airy 
briskness,  the  forwardness,  the  'scape-goat  trick- 
eries of  the  prototype  ? 


ELLISTONIANA.  3, 

"  But  there  is  something  not  natural  in  this  ever- 
i^iiimg  acting;  we  want  the  real  man." 

Are  you  quite  sure  that  it  is  not  the  man  himself, 
whom  you  cannot,  or  will  not  see,  under  some  ad- 
ventitious trappings  which,  nevertheless,  sit  not  at 
all  inconsistently  upon  him  ?  What  if  it  is  the 
nature  of  some  men  to  be  highly  artificial  ?  The 
fault  is  least  reprehensible  m  players.  Gibber  was 
his  own  Foppington,  with  almost  as  much  wit  as 
Vanbrugh  could  add  to  it. 

"  My  conceit  of  his  person," — it  is  Ben  Jonson 
speaking  of  Lord  Bacon,  —  "was  never  increased 
towards  him  by  his  place  or  honours.  But  I  have, 
and  do  reverence  him  for  the  greatness,  that  was 
only  proper  to  himself ;  in  that  he  seemed  to  me 
ever  one  of  the  greatest  men,  that  had  been  in  many 
ages.  In  his  adversity  I  ever  prayed  that  Heaven 
would  give  him  strength ;  for  greatness  he  could 
not  want." 

The  quality  here  commended  was  scarcely  less 
conspicuous  in  the  subject  of  these  idle  reminis- 
cences than  in  my  Lord  Verulam.  Those  who  have 
imagined  that  an  unexpected  elevation  to  the  direc- 
tion of  a  great  London  Theatre  affected  the  conse- 
quence of  Elliston,  or  at  all  changed  his  nature, 
knew  not  the  essential  greatness  of  the  man  whom 
they  disparage.  It  was  my  fortune  to  encounter 
him  near  St.  Dunstan's  Church  (which,  with  its 
jiunctual  giants,  is  now  no  more  than  dust  and  a 
shadow),  on  the  morning  of  his  election  to  that 
high  office.  Grasping  my  hand  with  a  look  of  sig- 
nificance, he  only  uttered, —  "  Have  you  heard  the 
news  ?  " — then,  with  another  look  following  up  the 
blow,  he  subjoined,  "  I  am  the  future  manager  of 
Drury  Lane  Theatre." — Breathless  as  he  saw  me, 
he   stayed  not   for   congratulation   or  reply,   but 


40  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

mutely  stalked  away,  leaving  me  to  chew  upon 
his  new-blown  dignities  at  leisure.  In  fact,  no- 
thing could  be  said  to  it.  Expressive  silence 
alone  could  muse  his  praise.  This  was  in  his 
'  great  style. 

But  was  he  less  g7-eat  (be  witness,  O  ye  powers 
of  Equanimity,  that  supported  in  the  ruins  of  Car- 
thage the  consular  exile,  and  more  recently  trans- 
muted, for  a  more  illustrious  exile,  the  barren  con- 
stableship  of  Elba  into  an  image  of  Imperial 
France),  when,  in  melancholy  after-years,  again, 
much  nearer  the  same  spot,  I  met  him,  when  that 
sceptre  had  been  wrested  from  his  hand,  and  his 
dominion  was  curtailed  to  the  petty  managership, 
and  part  proprietorship,  of  the  small  Olympic,  his 
Elba?  He  still  played  nightly  upon  the  boards  of 
Drury,  but  in  parts,  alas!  allotted  to  him,  not 
magnificently  distributed  by  him.  Waiving  his 
great  loss  as  nothing,  and  magnificently  sinking 
the  sense  of  fallen  material  grandeur  in  the  more 
liberal  resentment  of  depreciations  done  to  his  more 
lofty  intellectual  pretensions,  "Have  you  heard" 
(his  customary  exordium) — "have  you  heard," 
said  he,  "how  they  treat  me?  they  put  me  in 
comedy."  Thought  I — but  his  finger  on  his  lips 
forbade  any  verbal  interruption — "where  could 
they  have  put  you  better?"  Then,  after  a  pause — 
' '  Where  I  formerly  played  Romeo,  I  now  play 
Mercutio," — and  so  again  he  stalked  away,  neither 
staying,  nor  caring  for,  responses. 

O,  it  was  a  rich  scene, — but  Sir  A C , 

the  best  of  story-tellers  and  surgeons,  who  mends  a 
lame  narrative  almost  as  well  as  he  sets  a  fracture, 
alone  could  do  justice  to  it, — that  I  was  a  witness 
to,  in  the  tarnished  room  (that  had  once  been  green) 
of  that  same  little  Olympic.     There,  after  his  de- 


ELLISTONIANA.  4' 

position  from  Imperial  Drury,  he  substituted  a 
throne.  That  Olympic  Hill  was  his  "highest 
heaven  ;  "  himself  "  Jove  in  his  chair."  There  he 
sat  in  state,  while  before  him,  on  complaint  of 
prompter,  was  brought  for  judgment— how  shall  I 
describe  her?— one  of  those  little  tawdry  things 
that  flirt  at  the  tails  of  choruses— a  probationer 
for  the  town,  in  either  of  its  senses— the  pertest 
little  drab— a  dirty  fringe  and  appendage  of  the 
lamp's  smoke — who,  it  seems,  on  some  disappro- 
bation expressed  by  a  "highly  respectable"  au- 
dience— had  precipitately  quitted  her  station  on 
the  boards,  and  withdrawn  her  small  talents  in 
di?gust. 

"And  how  dare  you,"  said  her  manager, — as- 
suming a  censorial  severity,  which  would  have 
crushed  the  confidence  of  a  Vestris,  and  disarmed 
that  beautiful  Rebel  herself  of  her  professional 
caprices— I  verily  believe,  he  thought  her  standing 
before  him — "how  dare  you,  Madam,  withdraw 
yourself,  without  a  notice,  from  your  theatrical 
duties?"  "I  was  hissed.  Sir."  "And  you  have 
the  presumption  to  decide  upon  the  taste  of  the 
town?"  "I  don't  know  that,  Sir,  but  I  will 
never  stand  to  be  hissed,"  was  the  subjoinder  of 
young  Confidence — when  gathering  up  his  features 
into  one  significant  mass  of  wonder,  pity,  and  ex- 
postulatory  indignation— in  a  lesson  never  to  have 
been  lost  upon  a  creature  less  forward  than  she  who 
stood  before  him — his  words  were  these  :  "They 
have  hissed  me." 

'Twas  the  identical  argument  ^  fortiori,  which 
the  son  of  Peleus  uses  to  Lycaon  trembling  under 
his  lance,  to  persuade  him  to  take  his  destiny  with 
a  good  grace.  "  I  too  am  mortal."  And  it  is  to 
be  believed  that  in  both  cases  the  rhetoric  missed 


,1  LAST  ESSAyS  OF  ELIA. 

of  its  application,  for  want  of  a  proper  under- 
standing with  the  faculties  of  the  respective  reci  • 
pients. 

"  Quite  an  Opera  pit,"  he  said  to  me,  as  he  was 
courteously  conducting  me  over  the  benches  of  his 
Surrey  Theatre,  the  last  retreat,  and  recess,  of  his 
every-day  waning  grandeur. 

Those  who  knew  Elliston,  will  know  the  manner 
in  which  he  pronounced  the  latter  sentence  of  the 
few  words  I  am  about  to  record.  One  proud  day  to 
me  he  took  his  roast  mutton  with  us  in  the  Temple, 
to  which  I  had  superadded  a  preliminary  haddock. 
After  a  rather  plentiful  partaking  of  the  meagre 
banquet,  not  unrefreshed  with  the  humbler  sort  of 
liquors,  I  made  a  sort  of  apology  for  the  humility 
of  the  fare,  observing  that  for  my  own  part  I  never 
ate  but  of  one  dish  at  dinner.  "  I  too  never  eat  but 
one  thing  at  dinner," — was  his  reply — then  after  a 
pause — "reckoning  fish  as  nothing."  The  manner 
was  all.  It  was  as  if  by  one  peremptory  sentence 
he  had  decreed  the  annihilation  of  all  the  savoury 
esculents,  which  the  pleasant  and  nutritious-food- 
giving  Ocean  pours  forth  upon  poor  humans  from 
her  watery  bosom.  This  was  greatness,  tempered 
with  considerate  tenderness  to  the  feelings  of  his 
scanty  but  welcoming  entertainer. 

Great  wert  thou  in  thy  life,  Robert  William 
Elliston  !  and  not  lessened  in  thy  death,  if  report 
speak  truly,  which  says  that  thou  didst  direct  that 
thy  mortal  remains  should  repose  under  no  inscrip- 
tion but  one  of  pure  LatiHity.  Classical  was  thy 
bringing  up  !  and  beautiful  was  the  feeling  on  thy 
last  bed,  which,  connecting  the  man  with  the  boy, 
took  thee  back  to  thy  latest  exercise  of  imagination, 
to  the  days  when,  undreaming  of  Theatres  and 
Managerships,  thou  wert  a  scholar,  and  an  early 


ELLISTONIANA. 


ripe  one,  under  the  roofs  builded  by  the  munificent 
and  pious  Colet.  For  thee  the  Pauline  Muses  weep. 
In  elegies,  that  shall  silence  this  crude  prose,  they 
shall  celebrate  thy  praise. 


THE    OLD    MARGATE    HOY. 


AM  fond  of  passing  my  vacations  (I  be- 
lieve I  have  said  so  before)  at  one  or 
otlier  of  the  Universities.  Next  to  these 
my  choice  would  fix  me  at  some  woody 
spot,  such  as  the  neighbourhood  of  Henley  af- 
fords in  abundance,  on  the  banks  of  my  beloved 
Thames.  But  somehow  or  other  my  cousin  con- 
trives to  wheedle  me,  once  in  three  or  four  sea- 
sons, to  a  watering-place.  Old  attachments  cling 
to  her  in  spite  of  experience.  We  have  been  dull  at 
Worthing  one  summer,  duller  at  Brighton  another, 
dullest  at  Eastbourne  a  third,  and  are  at  this  moment 
doing  dieary  penance  at — Hastings  !  — and  all  be- 
cause we  were  happy  many  years  ago  for  a  brief 
week  at  Margate.  That  was  our  first  sea-side  ex- 
p)eriment,  and  many  circumstances  combined  to 
make  it  the  most  agreeable  holiday  of  my  life.  We 
had  neither  of  us  seen  the  sea,  and  we  had  never 
been  from  home  so  long  together  in  company. 

Can  I  forget  thee,  thou  old  Margate  Hoy,  with 
thy  weather-beaten,  sun-burnt  captain,  and  his  rough 
accommodations — ill  exchanged  for  the  foppery 
and  fresh-water  niceness  of  the  modem  steam- 
packet  ?  To  the  winds  and  waves  thou  committedst 
thy  goodly  freightage,  and  didst  ask  no  aid  of 
magic  fumes,   and  spells,  and   boiling  cauldrons. 


THE  OLD  MARGATE  HOY.  45 

W  ith  the  gales  of  heaven  thou  wentest  swimmingly ; 
or,  when  it  was  their  pleasure,  stoodest  still  with 
sailor-like  patience.  Thy  course  was  natural,  not 
forced,  as  in  a  hotbed  ;  nor  didst  thou  go  poisoning 
the  breath  of  ocean  with  sulphureous  smoke — a 
great  sea  chimera,  chimneying  and  fumacing  the 
deep ;  or  liker  to  that  fire-god  parching  up  Sca- 
mander. 

Can  I  forget  thy  honest,  yet  slender  crew,  with 
their  coy  reluctant  responses  (yet  to  the  suppression 
of  anything  like  contempt)  to  the  raw  questions, 
which  we  of  the  great  city  would  be  ever  and  anon 
putting  to  them,  as  to  the  uses  of  this  or  that  strange 
naval  implement  ?  'Specially  can  I  forget  thee,  thou 
happy  medium,  thou  shade  of  refuge  between  us  and 
them,  conciliating  interpreter  of  their  skill  to  our 
simplicity,  comfortable  ambassador  between  sea 
and  land ! — whose  sailor-trousers  did  not  more  con- 
vincingly assure  thee  to  be  an  adopted  denizen  of 
the  former,  than  thy  white  cap,  and  whiter  apron 
over  them,  with  thy  neat-fingered  practice  in  thy 
culinary  vocation,  bespoke  thee  to  have  been  of 
inland  nurture  heretofore — a  master  cook  of  East- 
cheap  ?  How  busily  didst  thou  ply  thy  multifarious 
occupation,  cook,  mariner,  attendant,  chamberlain ; 
here,  there,  like  another  Ariel,  flaming  at  once 
about  all  parts  of  the  deck,  yet  with  kindlier 
ministrations — not  to  assist  the  tempest,  but,  as  if 
touched  with  a  kindred  sense  of  our  infirmities,  to 
soothe  the  qualms  which  that  untried  motion  might 
haply  raise  in  our  crude  land-fancies.  And  when 
the  o'erwashing  billows  drove  us  below  deck  (for  it 
was  far  gone  in  October,  and  we  had  stiff  and 
blowing  weather),  how  did  thy  officious  minister- 
ings,  still  catering  for  our  comfort,  with  cards,  and 
cordials,  and  thy  more  cordial  conversation,  alle- 


^6  LAST  ESSAVS   OF  ELI  A. 

viate  the  closeness  and  the  confinement  of  thy  else 
(truth  to  say)  not  very  savoury,  nor  very  inviting, 
little  cabin ! 

With  these  additaments  to  boot,  we  had  on  board 
a  fellow-passenger,  whose  discourse  in  verity  might 
have  beguiled  a  longer  voyage  than  we  meditated, 
and  have  made  mirth  and  wonder  abound  as  far  as 
the  Azores.  He  was  a  dark,  Spanish-complexioned 
young  man,  remarkably  handsome,  with  an  officer- 
like assurance,  and  an  insuppressible  volubility  of 
assertion.  He  was,  in  fact,  the  greatest  liar  I  had 
met  with  then,  or  since.  He  was  none  of  your 
hesitating,  half  story-tellers  (a  most  painful  de- 
scription of  mortals)  who  go  on  sounding  your 
belief,  and  only  giving  you  as  much  as  they  see  you 
can  swallow  at  a  time — the  nibbling  pickpockets  of 
your  patience — but  one  who  committed  downright, 
daylight  depredations  upon  his  neighbour's  faith. 
He  did  not  stand  shivering  upon  the  brink,  but  was 
a  hearty,  thorough-paced  liar,  and  plunged  at  once 
into  the  depths  of  your  credulity.  I  partly  believe, 
he  made  pretty  sure  of  his  company.  Not  many 
rich,  not  many  wise,  or  learned,  composed  at  that 
time  the  common  stowage  of  a  Margate  packet. 
We  were,  I  am  afraid,  a  set  of  as  unseasoned 
Londoners  (let  our  enemies  give  it  a  worse  name) 
as  Aldennanbury,  or  Watling  Street,  at  that  time 
of  day  could  have  supplied.  There  might  be  an 
exception  or  two  among  us,  but  I  scorn  to  make 
any  invidious  distinctions  among  such  a  jolly,  com- 
panionable ship's  company  as  those  were  whom  I 
sailed  with.  Something  too  must  be  conceded  to 
the  Genius  Loci.  Had  the  confident  fellow  told  us 
half  the  legends  on  land  which  he  favoured  us  with 
on  the  other  element,  I  flatter  myself  the  good 
sense  of  most  of  us  would  have  revolted.     But  we 


THE   OLD  MARGATE  HOV.  47 

were  in  a  new  world,  with  everything  unfamiliar 
about  us,  and  the  time  and  place  disposed  us  to 
the  reception  of  any  prodigious  marvel  whatsoever. 
Time  has  obliterated  from  my  memory  much  of  his 
wild  fablings;  and  the  rest  would  appear  but  dull, 
as  written,  and  to  be  read  on  shore.  He  had  been 
Aide-de-camp  (among  other  rare  accidents  and  for- 
tunes) to  a  Persian  Prince,  and  at  one  blow  had 
stricken  off  the  head  of  the  King  of  Carimania  on 
horseback.  He,  of  course,  married  the  Prince's 
daughter.  I  forget  what  unlucky  turn  in  the  po- 
litics of  that  court,  combining  with  the  loss  of  his 
consort,  was  the  reason  of  his  quitting  Persia  ;  but, 
with  the  rapidity  of  a  magician,  he  transported 
himself,  along  with  his  hearers,  back  to  England, 
where  we  still  found  him  in  the  confidence  of  great 
ladies.  There  was  some  story  of  a  princess — Eliza- 
beth, if  I  remember — having  intrusted  to  his  care 
an  extraordinary  casket  of  jewels,  upon  some  ex- 
traordinary occasion — but,  as  I  am  not  certain  of 
the  name  or  circumstance  at  this  distance  of  time, 
I  must  leave  it  to  the  Royal  daughters  of  England 
to  settle  the  honour  among  themselves  in  private. 
I  cannot  call  to  mind  half  his  pleasant  wonders ; 
but  I  perfectly  remember  that,  in  the  course  of  his 
travels,  he  had  seen  a  phoenix ;  and  he  obligingly 
undeceived  us  of  the  vulgar  error,  that  there  is  but 
one  of  that  species  at  a  time,  assuring  us  that  they 
were  not  uncommon  in  some  parts  of  Upper  Egypt. 
Hitherto  he  had  found  the  most  implicit  listeners. 
His  dreaming  fancies  had  transported  us  beyond 
the  "ignorant  present."  But  when  (still  hardying 
more  and  more  in  his  triumphs  over  our  simplicity) 
he  went  on  to  affinn  that  he  had  actually  sailed 
through  the  legs  of  the  Colossus  at  Rhodes,  it  really 
became  necessary  to  make  a  stand.     And  here  I 


48  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  EI, I  A. 

must  do  justice  to  the  good  sense  and  intrepidity  of 
one  of  our  party,  a  youth,  that  had  hitherto  been 
one  of  his  most  deferential  auditors,  who,  from  his 
recent  reading,  made  bold  to  assure  the  gentleman, 
that  there  must  be  some  mistake,  as  "the  Colossus 
in  question  had  been  destroyed  long  since;"   to 
whose  opinion,  delivered  with  all  modesty,  our  hero 
was  obliging  enough  to  concede  thus  much,  that 
' '  the  figure  was  indeed  a  little  damaged. "     This 
was  the  only  opposition  he  met  with,  and  it  did  not 
at  all  seem  to  stagger  him,  for  he  proceeded  with 
his   fables,   which   the   same   youth   appeared  to 
swallow  with  still  more  complacency  than  ever, — 
confirmed,  as  it  were,  by  the  extreme  candour  of 
that  concession.    With  these  prodigies  he  wheedled 
us  on  till  we  came  in  sight  of  the  Reculvers,  which 
one  of  our  own  company  (having  been  the  voyage 
before)  immediately  recognizing,  and  pointing  out 
to  us,  was  considered  by  us  as  no  ordinary  seaman. 
All  this  time  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  deck  quite 
a  different  character.    It  was  a  lad,  apparently  very 
poor,  very  infirai,  and  very  patient.     His  eye  was 
ever  on  the  sea,  with  a  smile;  and,  if  he  caught 
now  and  then  some  snatches  of  these  wild  legends, 
it  was  by  accident,  and  they  seemed  not  to  concern 
him.     The  waves  to  him  whispered  more  pleasant 
stories.     He  w?is  as  one  being  with  us,  but  not  of 
us.     He  heard  the  bell  of  dinner  ring  without  stir- 
ring ;  and  when  some  of  us  pulled  out  our  private 
stores — our  cold  meat  and  oursalads^he  produced 
none,  and  seemed  to  want  none.     Only  a  solitary 
biscuit  he  had  laid  in  ;  provision  for  the  one  or  two 
days  and  nights,  to  which  these  vessels  then  were 
oftentimes  obliged  to  prolong  their  voyage.    Upon 
a  nearer  acquaintance  with  him,  which  he  seemed 
neither  to  court  nor  decline,  we  learned  that  he 


THE  OLD  MARGATE  HOY.  49 

was  going  to  Margate,  with  the  hope  of  being  ad- 
mitted into  the  Infirmary  there  for  sea-batliing.  His 
disease  was  a  scrofula,  which  appeared  to  have 
eaten  all  over  him.  He  expressed  great  hopes  of  a 
cure ;  and  when  we  asked  him  whether  he  had  any 
friends  where  he  was  going,  he  replied,  "he  had 
no  friends." 

These  pleasant,  and  some  mournful  passages, 
with  the  first  sight  of  the  sea,  co-operating  with 
youth,  and  a  sense  of  holidays,  and  out-of-door  ad- 
venture, to  me  that  had  been  pent  up  in  populous 
cities  for  many  months  before, — have  left  upon  my 
mind  the  fragrance  as  of  summer  days  gone  by, 
bequeathing  nothing  but  their  remembrance  for 
cold  and  wintry  hours  to  chew  upon. 

Will  it  be  thought  a  digression  (it  may  spare 
some  unwelcome  comparisons)  if  I  endeavour  to 
account  for  the  dissatisfaction  which  I  have  heard 
so  many  persons  confess  to  have  felt  (as  I  did  my- 
self feel  in  part  on  this  occasion),  at  the  sight  of  the 
sea  for  the  first  time  ?  I  think  the  reason  usually 
given— referring  to  the  incapacity  of  actual  objects 
for  satisfying  our  preconceptions  of  them  — scarcely 
goes  deep  enough  into  the  question.  Let  the  same 
person  see  a  lion,  an  elephant,  a  mountain  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  and  he  shall  perhaps  feel  him- 
self a  little  mortified.  The  things  do  not  fill  up  that 
space  which  the  idea  of  them  seemed  to  take  up  in 
his  mind.  But  they  have  still  a  correspondency  to 
his  first  notion,  and  in  time  grow  up  to  it,  so  as  to 
produce  a  very  similar  impression  :  enlarging  them- 
selves (if  I  may  say  so)  upon  familiarity.  But  the 
sea  remains  a  disappointment. — Is  it  not,  that  in 
the  latter  we  had  expected  to  behold  (absurdly,  I 
grant,  but,  I  am  afraid,  by  the  law  of  imagination, 
unavoidably)  not  a  definite  object,  as  those  wild 
II.  E 


50  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  EL/ A. 

beasts,  or  that  mountain  compassable  by  the  eye, 
but  all  the  sea  at  once,  THE  COMMENSURATE  an- 
tagonist OF  THE  EARTH?  I  do  not  say  we  tell 
ourselves  so  much,  but  the  craving  of  the  mind  is 
to  be  satisfied  witli  nothing  less.  I  will  suppose 
the  case  of  a  young  person  of  fifteen  (as  I  then  was) 
knowing  nothing  of  the  sea,  but  from  description. 
He  comes  to  it  for  the  first  time — all  that  he  has 
been  reading  of  it  all  his  life,  and  that  the  most 
enthusiastic  part  of  life,^all  he  has  gathered  from 
narratives  of  wandering  seamen, — what  he  has 
gained  from  true  voyages,  and  what  he  cherishes 
as  credulously  from  romance  and  poetry, — crowding 
their  images,  and  exacting  strange  tributes  from 
expectation. — ^He  thinks  of  the  great  deep,  and  of 
tiiose  who  go  down  unto  it;  of  its  thousand  isles, 
and  of  the  vast  continents  it  washes ;  of  its  receiving 
the  mighty  Plata,  or  Orellana,  into  its  bosom, 
without  disturbance  or  sense  of  augmentation  ;  of 
Biscay  swells,  and  the  mariner 

For  many  a  day,  and  many  a  dreadful  night, 
Incessant  labouring  round  the  stormy  Cape  ; 

of  fatal  rocks,  and  the  "still-vexed  Bermoothes;" 
of  great  whirlpools,  and  the  water-spout ;  of  sunken 
ships,  and  sumless  treasures  swallowed  up  in  the 
unrestoring  depths  ;  of  fishes  and  quaint  monsters, 
to  which  all  that  is  terrible  on  earth — 

Be  but  as  buggs  to  frighten  babes  withal. 
Compared  with  the  creatures  in  the  sea's  entral ; 

of  naked  savages,  and  Juan  Fernandez;  of  pearls, 
and  shells ;  of  coral  beds,  and  of  enchanted  isles ; 
of  mermaids'  grots — 

I  do  not  assert  that  in  sober  earnest  he  expects 
to  be  shown  all  these  wonders  at  once,  but  he  is 
under   the   tyranny   of  a  mighty   faculty,   which 


THE  OLD  MARGATE  HOY.  51 

haunts  him  with  confused  hints  and  shadows  of  all 
these ;  and  when  the  actual  object  opens  first  upon 
him,  seen  (in  tame  weather,  too,  most  likely)  from 
our  unromantic  coasts — a  speck,  a  slip  of  sea- 
water,  as  it  shows  to  him — what  can  it  prove  but 
a  very  unsatisfying  and  even  diminutive  entertain- 
ment ?  Or  if  he  has  come  to  it  from  the  mouth  of 
a  river,  was  it  much  more  than  the  river  widening ; 
and,  even  out  of  sight  of  land,  what  had  he  but  a 
flat  watery  horizon  about  him,  nothing  comparable 
to  the  vast  o'er-curtaining  sky,  his  familiar  object, 
seen  daily  without  dread  or  amazement? — Who, 
in  similar  circumstances,  has  not  been  tempted  to 
exclaim  with  Charoba,  in  the  poem  of  Gebir, 

Is  this  the  mighty  ocean  ?  is  this  all  ? 

I  love  town  or  country;  but  this  detestable 
Cinque  Port  is  neither.  I  hate  these  scrubbed 
shoots,  thrusting  out  their  starved  foliage  from 
between  the  horrid  fissures  of  dusty  innutritious 
rocks  ;  which  the  amateur  calls  "  verdure  to  the 
edge  of  the  sea."  I  require  woods,  and  they  show 
me  stunted  coppices.  I  cry  out  for  the  water- 
brooks,  and  pant  for  fresh  streams,  and  inland 
murmurs.  I  cannot  stand  all  day  on  the  naked 
beach,  watching  the  capricious  hues  of  the  sea, 
shifting  like  the  colours  of  a  dying  mullet.  I  am 
tired  of  looking  out  at  the  windows  of  this  island- 
prison.  I  would  fain  retire  into  the  interior  of 
my  cage.  While  I  gaze  upon  the  sea,  I  want  to 
be  on  it,  over  it,  across  it.  It  binds  me  in  with 
chains,  as  of  iron.  My  thoughts  are  abroad.  I 
should  not  so  feel  in  Staffordshire.  There  is  no 
home  for  me  here.  There  is  no  sense  of  home 
at  Hastings.  It  is  a  place  of  fugitive  resort, 
an  heterogeneous   assemblage    of  sea-mews   and 


52  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

stock -brokers,  Amphitrites  of  the  town,  and  misses 
that  coquet  with  the  Ocean.  If  it  were  what  it 
was  in  its  primitive  shape,  and  what  it  ought  to 
have  remained,  a  fair,  honest  fishing-town,  and  no 
more,  it  were  something— with  a  few  straggling 
fishermen's  huts  scattered  about,  artless  as  its  cHffs, 
and  with  their  materials  filched  from  them,  it  were 
something.  I  could  abide  to  dwell  with  Meshech ; 
to  assort  with  fisher-swains  and  smugglers.  There 
are,  or  I  dream  there  are,  many  of  this  latter  occu- 
pation here.  Their  faces  become  the  place.  I  like 
a  smuggler.  He  is  the  only  honest  thief.  He  robs 
nothing  but  the  revenue — an  abstraction  I  never 
greatly  cared  about.  I  could  go  out  with  them  in 
their  mackerel  boats,  or  about  their  less  ostensible 
business,  with  some  satisfaction.  I  can  even  tole- 
rate those  poor  victims  to  monotony,  who  from  day 
to  day  pace  along  the  beach,  in  endless  progress 
and  recurrence,  to  watch  their  illicit  countrymen — 
townsfolk  or  brethren,  perchance — whistling  to  the 
sheathing  and  unsheathing  of  their  cutlasses  (their 
only  solace),  who,  under  the  mild  name  of  pre- 
ventive service,  keep  up  a  legitimated  civil  warfare 
in  the  deplorable  absence  of  a  foreign  one,  to  show 
their  detestation  of  run  hollands,  and  zeal  for  Old 
England.  But  it  is  the  visitants  from  town,  that 
come  here  to  say  that  they  have  been  here,  with  no 
more  relish  of  the  sea  than  a  pond-perch  or  a  dace 
might  be  supposed  to  have,  that  are  my  aversion. 
I  feel  like  a  foolish  dace  in  these  regions,  and  have 
as  little  toleration  for  myself  here  as  for  them. 
What  can  they  want  here  ?  If  they  had  a  true 
relish  of  the  ocean,  why  have  brought  all  this  land 
luggage  with  them?  or  why  pitch  their  civilized 
tents  in  the  desert  ?  What  mean  these  scanty  book- 
rooms— marine  libraries  as  they  entitle  them — if 


THE  OLD  MARGATE  HOY.  53 

the  sea  were,  as  they  would  have  us  believe,  a 
book  "to  read  strange  matter  in?"  what  are  their 
foolish  concert-rooms,  if  they  come,  as  they  would 
fain  be  thought  to  do,  to  listen  to  the  music  of  the 
waves  ?  All  is  false  and  hollow  pretension.  They 
come  because  it  is  the  fashion,  and  to  spoil  the 
nature  of  the  place.  They  are,  mostly,  as  I  have 
said,  stock-brokers  ;  but  I  have  watched  the  better 
sort  of  them — now  and  then,  an  honest  citizen  (of 
the  old  stamp),  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart,  shall 
bring  down  his  wife  and  daughters  to  taste  the  sea 
breezes.  I  always  know  the  date  of  their  arrival. 
It  is  easy  to  see  it  in  then-  countenance.  A  day  or 
two  they  go  wandering  on  the  shingles,  picking  up 
cockle-shells,  and  thinking  them  great  things  ;  but, 
in  a  poor  week,  imagination  slackens  :  they  begin 
to  discover  that  cockles  produce  no  pearls,  and 
then— O  then  !— if  I  could  interpret  for  the  pretty 
creatures  (I  know  they  have  not  the  courage  to 
confess  it  themselves),  how  gladly  would  they  ex- 
change their  sea-side  rambles  for  a  Sunday  walk 
on  the  green  sward  of  their  accustomed  Twicken 
ham  meadows  ! 

I  would  ask  one  of  these  sea-charmed  emigrants, 
who  think  they  truly  love  the  sea,  with  its  wild 
usages,  what  would  their  feelings  be  if  some  of 
the  unsophisticated  aborigines  of  this  place,  encou- 
raged by  their  courteous  questionings  here,  should 
venture,  on  the  faith  of  such  assured  sympathy  be- 
tween them,  to  return  the  visit,  and  come  up  to 
see — London.  I  must  imagine  them  with  their 
fishing-tackle  on  their  back,  as  we  carry  our  town 
necessaries.  What  a  sensation  would  it  cause  in 
Lothbury !  What  vehement  laughter  would  it  not 
excite  among 
The  daughters  of  Cheapsldt,  anJ  wives  of  Loiubard-slreet  ! 


54  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

I  am  sure  that  no  town- bred  or  inland-born  sub- 
jects can  feel  their  true  and  natural  nourishment 
at  these  sea-places.  Nature,  where  she  does  not 
mean  us  for  mariners  and  vagabonds,  bids  us  stay 
at  home.  The  salt  foam  seems  to  nourish  a  spleen. 
I  am  not  half  so  good-natured  as  by  the  milder 
waters  of  my  natural  river.  I  would  exchange 
these  sea-gulls  for  swans,  and  scud  a  swallow  for 
ever  about  the  banks  of  Thamesis. 


THE   CONVALESCENT. 

'<J^\  PRETTY   severe    fit   of  indisposition 

*"      which,  under   the  name   of  a  nervous 

fever,  has  made  a  prisoner  of  me  for 

„„ some   weeks    past,    and    is   but  slowly 

leaving  me,  has  reduced  me  to  an  incapacity  of 
reflecting  upon  any  topic  foreign  to  itself.  Expect 
no  healthy  conclusions  from  me  this  month,  reader  ; 
I  can  offer  you  only  sick  men's  dreams. 

And  truly  the  whole  state  of  sickness  is  such  ; 
for  what  else  is  it  but  a  magnificent  dream  for  a 
man  to  lie  a-bed,  and  draw  daylight  curtains  about 
him  ;  and,  shutting  out  the  sun,  to  induce  a  total 
oblivion  of  all  the  works  which  are  going  on  under 
it  ?  To  become  insensible  to  all  the  operations  of 
life,  except  the  beatings  of  one  feeble  pulse  ? 

If  there  be  a  regal  solitude,  it  is  a  sick  bed. 
How  the  patient  lords  it  there  ;  what  caprices  he 
acts  without  control  !  how  king-like  he  sways  his 
pillow — tumbling,  and  tossing,  and  shifting,  and 
lowering,  and  thumping,  and  flatting,  and  mould- 
ing it,  to  the  ever-varying  requisitions  of  his  throb- 
bing temples. 

He  changes  sida  oftener  than  a  politician.  Now 
he  lies  full  lengtli,  then  half  length,  obliquely, 
transversely,  head  and  feet  quite  across  the  bed ; 
and  none  accuses  him  of  tergiversation.    Within  the 


56  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

four  curtains  he  is  absolute.     They  are  his  Mare 
Clausuni. 

How  sickness  enlarges  the  dimensions  of  a  man's 
self  to  himself!  he  is  his  own  exclusive  object. 
Supreme  selfishness  is  inculcated  upon  him  as  his 
only  duty.  'Tis  the  Two  Tables  of  the  Law  to 
him.  He  has  nothing  to  think  of  but  how  to  get 
well.  What  passes  out  of  doors,  or  within  them, 
so  he  hear  not  the  jarring  of  them,  affects  him  not. 

A  little  while  ago  he  was  greatly  concerned  in 
the  event  of  a  lawsuit,  which  was  to  be  the  making 
or  the  marring  of  his  dearest  friend.  He  was  to  be 
seen  trudging  about  upon  this  man's  errand  to  fifty 
quarters  of  the  town  at  once,  jogging  this  witness, 
refreshing  that  solicitor.  The  cause  was  to  come 
on  yesterday.  He  is  absolutely  as  indifferent  to 
the  decision  as  if  it  were  a  question  to  be  tried  at 
Pekin.  Peradventure  from  some  whispering,  going 
on  about  the  house,  not  intended  for  his  hearing, 
he  picks  up  enough  to  make  him  understand  that 
things  went  cross-grained  in  the  court  yesterday, 
and  his  friend  is  ruined.  But  the  word  "friend," 
and  the  word  "ruin,"  disturb  him  no  more  than 
so  much  jargon.  He  is  not  to  think  of  anything 
but  how  to  get  better. 

What  a  world  of  foreign  cares  are  merged  in 
that  absorbing  consideration ! 

He  has  put  on  the  strong  armour  of  sickness,  he 
is  wrapped  in  the  callous  hide  of  suffering  ;  he  keeps 
his  sympathy,  like  some  curious  vintage,  under 
trusty  lock  and  key,  for  his  own  use  only. 

He  lies  pitying  himself,  honing  and  moaning  to 
himself;  he  yearneth  over  himself;  his  bowels  are 
even  melted  within  him,  to  think  what  he  suffers  ; 
he  is  not  ashamed  to  weep  over  himself. 

He  is  for  ever  plotting  how  to  do  some  good  to 


THE  CONVALESCENT.  57 

himself;  studying  little  stratagems  and  artificial 
alleviations. 

He  makes  the  most  of  himself;  dividing  him- 
self, by  an  allowable  fiction,  into  as  many  distinct 
individuals  as  he  hath  sore  and  sorrowing  mem- 
bers. Sometimes  he  meditates — as  of  a  thing  apart 
from  him — upon  his  poor  aching  head,  and  that 
(kdl  pain  which,  dozing  or  waking,  lay  in  it  all  the 
past  night  like  a  log,  or  palpable  substance  of 
■piain,  not  to  be  removed  without  opening  the  very 
skull,  as  it  seemed,  to  take  it  thence.  Or  he  pities 
his  long,  clammy,  attenuated  fingers.  He  com- 
passionates himself  all  over;  and  his  bed  is  a  very 
discipline  of  humanity,  and  tender  heart. 

He  is  his  own  sympathizer;  and  instinctively 
feels  that  none  can  so  well  perform  that  office  for 
him.  He  cares  for  ie\\  spectators  to  his  tragedy. 
Only  that  punctual  face  of  the  old  nurse  pleases 
him,  that  announces  his  broths  and  his  cordials. 
He  likes  it  because  it  is  so  unmoved,  and  because 
he  can  pour  forth  his  feverish  ejaculations  before  it 
as  unreservedly  as  to  his  bed-post. 

To  the  world's  business  he  is  dead.  He  under- 
stands not  what  the  callings  and  occupations  of 
mortals  are ;  only  he  has  a  glimmering  conceit  of 
some  such  thing,  when  the  doctor  makes  his  daily 
call;  and  even  in  the  lines  on  that  busy  face  he 
reads  no  multiplicity  of  patients,  but  solely  con- 
ceives of  himself  as  the  sick  man.  To  what  other 
uneasy  couch  the  good  man  is  hastening,  when  he 
slips  out  of  his  chamber,  folding  up  his  thin  douceur 
so  carefully,  for  fear  of  rustling — is  no  speculation 
which  he  can  at  present  entertain.  He  thinks  only 
of  the  regular  return  of  the  same  phenomenon  at 
the  same  hour  to-morrow. 

Household  rumours  touch  him  not.     Some  faint 


•ji  LAST  ESSAl'S  OF  EL! A. 

murmur,  indicative  of  life  going  on  within  the 
house,  soothes  him,  while  he  knows  not  distinctly 
what  it  is.  He  is  not  to  know  anything,  not  to 
think  of  anything.  Servants  ghding  up  or  down 
the  distant  staircase,  treading  as  upon  velvet,  gently 
keep  his  ear  awake,  so  long  as  he  troubles  not  him- 
self further  than  with  some  feeble  guess  at  their 
enands.  Exacter  knowledge  would  be  a  burthen 
to  him;  he  can  just  endure  the  pressure  of  conjec- 
ture. He  opens  his  eye  faintly  at  the  dull  stroke 
of  the  muffled  knocker,  and  closes  it  again  without 
asking  "Who  was  it?"  He  is  flattered  by  a  ge- 
neral notion  that  inquiries  are  making  after  him, 
but  he  cares  not  to  know  the  name  of  tlie  inquirer. 
In  the  general  stillness,  and  awful  hush  of  the 
house,  he  lies  in  state,  and  feels  his  sovereignty. 

To  be  sick  is  to  enjoy  monarchal  prerogatives. 
Compare  the  silent  tread  and  quiet  ministr}',  al- 
most by  the  eye  only,  with  which  he  is  served — 
with  the  careless  demeanour,  the  unceremonious 
goings  in  and  out  (slapping  of  doors,  or  leaving 
them  open)  of  the  very  same  attendants,  when  he 
is  getting  a  little  better — and  you  will  confess,  that 
from  the  bed  of  sickness  (throne  let  me  rather  call 
it)  to  the  elbow-chair  of  convalescence,  is  a  fall 
from  dignity,  amounting  to  a  deposition. 

How  convalescence  shrinks  a  man  back  to  his 
pristine  stature  !  Where  is  now  the  space,  which 
he  occupied  so  lately,  in  his  own,  in  the  family's 
eye? 

The  scene  of  his  regalities,  his  sick  room,  which 
was  his  presence-chamber,  where  he  lay  and  acted 
his  despotic  fancies — how  is  it  reduced  to  a  com- 
mon bed -room!  The  trimness  of  the  very  bed  has 
something  petty  and  unmeaning  about  it.  It  is 
made  every  day.    How  unlike  to  that  wavy,  many- 


THE   CONVALESCENT.  59 

furrowed,  oceanic  surface,  which  it  presented  so 
short  a  time  since,  when  to  make  it  was  a  service 
not  to  be  thought  of  at  oftener  than  three  or  four 
day  revolutions,  when  the  patient  was  with  pain 
and  grief  to  be  lifted  for  a  little  while  out  of  it,  to 
submit  to  the  encroachments  of  unwelcome  neat- 
ness, and  decencies  which  his  shaken  frame  depre- 
cated ;  then  to  be  lifted  into  it  again,  for  another 
three  or  four  days'  respite,  to  flounder  it  out  of 
shape  again,  while  every  fresh  furrow  was  an  his- 
torical record  of  some  shifting  posture,  some  un- 
easy turning,  some  seeking  for  a  little  ease ;  and 
the  shrunken  skin  scarce  told  a  truer  story  than 
the  crumpled  coverlid. 

Hushed  are  those  mysterious  sighs — those  groans 
— so  much  more  awful,  while  we  knew  not  from  what 
caverns  of  vast  hidden  suffering  they  proceeded. 
The  Lernean  pangs  are  quenched.  The  riddle  of 
sickness  is  solved  ;  and  Philoctetes  is  become  an 
ordinary  personage. 

Perhaps  some  relic  of  the  sick  man's  dream  of 
greatness  survives  in  the  still  lingering  visitations 
of  the  medical  attendant.  But  how  is  he,  too, 
changed  with  everything  else?  Can  tliis  be  he — ■ 
this  man  of  news — of  chat— of  anecdote — of  every- 
thing but  physic — can  this  be  he,  wlio  so  lately 
came  between  the  patient  and  his  cruel  enemy,  as 
on  some  solemn  embassy  from  Nature,  erecting 
herself  into  a  high  mediating  party  ? — Pshaw  !  'tis 
some  old  woman. 

Farewell  with  him  all  that  made  sickness  pom- 
pous— the  spell  that  hushed  the  household — the 
desert-like  stillness,  felt  throughout  its  inmost  cham- 
bers— the  mute  attendance — the  inquiry  by  looks — 
the  still  softer  delicacies  of  self-attention — the  sole 
and  single  eye  of  distemper  alonely  fixed  upon  itself 


6o  LAST  £SSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

—world-thoughts  exduded — the  man  a  world  unto 
himself — his  own  theatre — 

What  a  speck  is  he  dwindled  into  ! 

In  this  flat  swamp  of  convalescence,  left  by  the 
ebb  of  sickness,  yet  far  enough  from  the  terra- 
firma  of  established  health,  your  note,  dear  Edi- 
tor, reached  me,  requesting — an  article.  In  Arti- 
culo  Mortis,  thought  I  ;  but  it  is  something  hard 
— and  the  quibble,  WTetched  as  it  was,  relieved 
me.  The  summons,  unseasonable  as  it  appeared, 
seemed  to  link  me  on  again  to  the  petty  businesses 
of  life,  which  I  had  lost  sight  of ;  a  gentle  call  to 
activity,  however  trivial ;  a  wholesome  weaning 
from  that  preposterous  dream  of  self-absorption — 
the  puffy  state  of  sickness — in  which  I  confess  to 
have  lain  so  long,  insensible  to  the  magazines  and 
monarchies  of  the  world  alike  ;  to  its  laws,  and  to 
its  literature.  The  hypochondriac  flatus  is  sub- 
siding ;  the  acres,  which  in  imagination  I  had 
spread  over — for  the  sick  man  swells  in  the  sole 
contemplation  of  his  single  sufferings,  till  he  be- 
comes a  Tityus  to  himself — are  wasting  to  a  span  ; 
and  for  the  giant  of  self-importance,  which  I  was 
so  lately,  you  have  me  once  again  in  my  natural 
pretensions — the  lean  and  meagre  figure  of  your 
insignificant  Essayist. 


SANITY   OF    TRUE    GENIUS. 


'  O  far  from  the  position  holding  true,  that 
great  wit  (or  genius,  in  our  modern 
way  of  speaking)  has  a  necessarj'  alli- 

ance  with  insanity,   the  greatest  wits, 

on  the  contrary,  will  ever  be  found  to  be  the 
sanest  writers.  It  is  impossible  for  the  mind  to 
conceive  of  a  mad  Shakespeare.  The  greatness 
of  wit,  by  which  the  poetic  talent  is  here  chiefly  to 
be  understood,  manifests  itself  in  the  admirable 
balance  of  all  the  faculties.  .Madness  is  the  dis- 
proportionate straining  or  excess  of  any  one  of 
them.  "So  strong  a  wit,"  says  Cowley,  speaking 
of  a  poetical  friend, 

did  Nature  to  him  frame, 

As  all  things  but  his  judgment  overcame ; 

His  judgment  like  the  heavenly  moon  did  show, 

Tempering  that  mighty  sea  below. 

The  ground  of  the  mistake  is,  that  men,  finding 
in  the  raptures  of  the  higher  poetry  a  condition  of 
exaltation,  to  which  they  have  no  parallel  in  their 
own  experience,  besides  the  spurious  resemblance  of 
it  in  dreams  and  fevers,  impute  a  state  of  dreami- 
ness and  fever  to  the  poet.  But  the  true  poet 
dreams  being  awake.  He  is  not  possessed  by  his 
subject,  but  has  dominion  over  it.     In  the  groves 


62  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

of  Eden  he  walks  familiar  as  in  his  native  paths. 
He  ascends  the  empyrean  heaven,  and  is  not  in- 
toxicated. He  treads  the  burning  marl  without 
dismay ;  he  wings  his  flight  without  self-loss  through 
realms  of  chaos  "and  old  night."  Or  if,  abandon- 
ing himself  to  that  severer  chaos  of  a  "  human 
mind  untuned,"  he  is  content  awhile  to  be  mad 
with  Lear,  or  to  hate  mankind  (a  sort  of  madness) 
with  Timon,  neither  is  that  madness,  nor  this  mis- 
anthropy, so  unchecked,  but  that, — never  letting 
the  reins  of  reason  wholly  go,  while  most  he  seems 
to  do  so, — he  has  his  better  genius  still  whispering 
at  his  ear,  with  the  good  servant  Kent  suggesting 
saner  counsels,  or  with  the  honest  steward  Flavius 
recommending  kindlier  resolutions.  Where  he 
seems  most  to  recede  from  humanity,  he  will  be 
found  the  truest  to  it.  From  beyond  the  scope  of 
Nature  if  he  summon  possible  existences,  he  sub- 
jugates them  to  the  law  of  her  consistency.  He  is 
beautifully  loyal  to  that  sovereign  directress,  even 
when  he  appears  most  to  betray  and  desert  her. 
His  ideal  tribes  submit  to  policy ;  his  very  monsters 
are  tamed  to  his  hand,  even  as  that  wild  sea-brood, 
shepherded  by  Proteus.  He  tames,  and  he  clothes 
them  with  attributes  of  flesh  and  blood,  till  they 
wonder  at  themselves,  like  Indian  Islanders  forced 
to  submit  to  European  vesture.  Caliban,  the 
Witches,  are  as  true  to  the  laws  of  their  own  na- 
ture (ours  with  a  difference),  as  Othello,  Hamlet, 
and  Macbeth.  Herein  the  great  and  the  little  wits 
are  differenced ;  that  if  the  latter  wander  ever  so 
little  from  nature  or  actual  existence,  they  lose 
themselves  and  their  readers.  Their  phantoms 
are  lawless ;  their  visions  nightmares.  They  do 
not  create,  which  implies  shaping  and  consistenc)'. 
Their  imaginations  are  not  active — for  to  be  active 


SANITY  OF  TRUE  GENIUS.  63 

IS  to  call  something  into  act  and  form — but  passive, 
as  men  in  sick  dreams.  For  the  super-natural,  or 
something  super-added  to  what  we  know  of  nature, 
they  give  you  the  plainly  non-natural.  And  if  this 
were  all,  and  that  these  mental  hallucinations  were 
discoverable  only  in  the  treatment  of  subjects  out 
of  nature,  or  transcending  it,  the  judgment  might 
with  some  plea  be  pardoned  if  it  ran  riot,  and  a 
little  wantonized  :  but  even  in  the  describing  of 
real  and  every-day  life,  that  which  is  before  their 
eyes,  one  of  these  lesser  wits  shall  more  deviate 
from  nature  —  show  more  of  that  inconsequence, 
which  has  a  natural  alliance  with  frenzy, — than  a 
great  genius  in  his  "maddest  fits,"  as  Wither  some- 
where calls  them.  We  appeal  to  any  one  that  is 
acquainted  with  the  common  run  of  Lane's  novels, 
— as  they  existed  some  twenty  or  thirty  years  back, 
— those  scanty  intellectual  viands  of  the  whole 
female  reading  public,  till  a  happier  genius  arose, 
and  expelled  for  ever  the  innutritious  phantoms, 
— whether  he  has  not  found  his  brain  more  "  be- 
tossed,"  his  memory  more  puzzled,  his  sense  of 
when  and  where  more  confounded,  among  the  im- 
probable events,  the  incoherent  incidents,  the  in- 
consistent characters,  or  no  characters,  of  some 
third-rate  love-intrigue  —  where  the  persons  shall 
be  a  Lord  Glendamour  and  a  Miss  Rivers,  and  the 
scene  only  alternate  between  Bath  and  Bond  Street 
— a  more  bewildering  dreaminess  induced  upon 
him  than  he  has  felt  wandering  over  all  the  fairy- 
grounds  of  Spenser.  In  the  productions  we  refer 
to,  nothing  but  names  and  places  is  familiar ;  the 
persons  are  neither  of  this  world  nor  of  any  other 
conceivable  one;  an  endless  stream  of  activities 
without  purpose,  of  purposes  destitute  of  motive  : 
— we  meet  phantoms  in  our  known  walks ;  fan- 


(A  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA. 

tasques  only  christened.  In  the  poet  we  have 
names  which  announce  fiction  ;  and  we  have  ab- 
solutely no  place  at  all,  for  the  things  and  persons 
of  the  Fairy  Queen  prate  not  of  their  "where- 
about." But  in  their  inner  nature,  and  the  law  of 
their  speech  and  actions,  we  are  at  home,  and 
upon  acquainted  ground.  The  one  turns  life  into 
a  dream ;  the  other  to  the  wildest  dreams  gives 
the  sobrieties  of  every-day  occurrences.  By  what 
subtle  art  of  tracing  the  mental  processes  it  is 
effected,  we  are  not  philosophers  enough  to  explain, 
but  in  that  wonderful  episode  of  the  cave  of  Mam- 
mon, in  which  the  Money  God  appears  first  in  the 
lowest  form  of  a  miser,  is  then  a  worker  of  metals, 
and  becomes  the  god  of  all  the  treasures  of  the 
world  ;  and  has  a  daughter.  Ambition,  before  whom 
all  the  world  kneels  for  favours — with  the  Hes- 
perian fruit,  the  waters  of  Tantalus,  with  Pilate 
washing  his  hands  vainly,  but  not  impertinently, 
in  the  same  stream — that  we  should  be  at  one  mo- 
ment in  the  cave  of  an  old  hoarder  of  treasures,  at 
the  next  at  the  forge  of  the  Cyclops,  in  a  palace 
and  yet  in  hell,  all  at  once,  with  the  shifting  mu- 
tations of  the  most  rambling  dream,  and  our  judg- 
ment yet  all  the  time  awake,  and  neither  able  nor 
willing  to  detect  the  fallacy, — is  a  proof  of  that  hid- 
den sanity  which  still  guides  the  poet  in  the  v/ildest 
seeming  aberrations. 

It  is  not  enough  to  say  that  the  whole  episode  is 
a  copy  of  the  mind's  conceptions  in  sleep  ;  it  is,  in 
some  sort — but  what  a  copy!  Let  the  most  ro- 
mantic of  us,  that  has  been  entertained  all  night 
with  the  spectacle  of  some  wild  and  magnificent 
vision,  recombine  it  in  the  morning,  and  try  it  by 
his  waking  judgment.  That  which  appeared  so 
shifting,   and  yet   so  coherent,  while  that  faculty 


SANITY  OF   TRUE  GENIUS.  65 

was  passive,  when  it  comes  under  cool  examination 
shall  appear  so  reasonless  and  so  unlinked,  that  we 
are  ashamed  to  have  been  so  deluded;  and  to  have 
taken,  though  but  in  sleep,  a  monster  for  a  god. 
But  the  transitions  in  this  episode  are  every  whit 
as  violent  as  in  the  most  extravagant  dream,  and 
yet  the  waking  judgment  ratifies  them. 


CAPTAIN   JACKSON. 


MONG  the  deaths  in  our  obituary  for 
this  month,  I  observe  with  concern 
"At  his  cottage  on  the  Bath  Road, 
Captain  Jackson."  The  name  and  at- 
tribution are  common  enough ;  but  a  feeling  like 
reproach  persuades  me  that  this  could  have  been 
no  other  in  fact  than  my  dear  old  friend,  who 
some  five-and-twenty  years  ago  rented  a  tene- 
ment, which  he  was  pleased  to  dignify  with  the 
appellation  here  used,  about  a  mile  from  West- 
bourn  Green.  Alack,  how  good  men,  and  the 
good  turns  they  do  us,  slide  out  of  memory,  and 
are  recalled  but  by  the  surprise  of  some  such  sad 
memento  as  that  which  now  lies  before  us. 

He  whom  I  mean  was  a  retired  half-pay  ofiicer, 
with  a  wife  and  two  growu-up  daughters,  whom 
he  maintained  with  the  port  and  notions  of  gentle- 
women upon  that  slender  professional  allowance. 
Comely  girls  they  were  too. 

And  was  I  in  danger  of  forgetting  this  man? — 
his  cheerful  suppers — the  noble  tone  of  hospitality, 
when  first  you  set  your  foot  in  the  cottage — the  anxi- 
ous ministerings  about  you,  where  little  or  nothing 
(God  knows)  was  to  be  ministered.— Althea's  horn 
in  a  poor  platter — the  power  of  self-enchantment. 


CAPTAIN  JACKSON.  67 

by  which,  in  his  magnificent  wishes  to  entertain 
you,  he  multiplied  his  means  to  bounties. 

You  saw  with  your  bodily  eyes  indeed  what 
seemed  a  bare  scrag — cold  savings  frcm  the  fore- 
gone meal — remnant  hardly  sufficient  to  send  a 
mendicant  from  the  door  contented.  But  in  the 
copious  will — the  revelling  imagination  of  your 
host— the  "mind,  the  mind.  Master  Shallow," 
whole  beeves  were  spread  before  you — hecatombs 
— no  end  appeared  to  the  profusion. 

It  was  the  widow's  cruse — the  loaves  and  fishes; 
carving  could  not  lessen,  nor  helping  diminish  it — 
the  stamina  were  left — the  elemental  bone  still 
flourished,  divested  of  its  accidents. 

"  Let  us  live  while  we  can,"  methinks  I  hear  the 
open-handed  creature  exclaim;  "while  we  have, 
let  us  not  want,"  "  here  is  plenty  left;"  "want 
for  nothing  " — with  many  more  such  hospitable 
sayings,  the  spurs  of  appetite,  and  old  concomitants 
of  smoking  boards  and  feast-oppressed  chargers. 
Then  sliding  a  slender  ratio  of  Single  Gloucester 
upon  his  wife's  plate,  or  the  daughters',  he  would 
convey  the  remanent  rind  into  his  own,  with  a 
merry  quirk  of  "the  nearer  the  bone,"  &c.,  and 
declaring  that  he  universally  preferred  the  outside. 
For  we  had  our  table  distinctions,  you  are  to  know, 
and  some  of  us  in  a  manner  sate  above  the  salt. 
None  but  his  guest  or  guests  dreamed  of  tasting  flesh 
luxuries  at  night,  the  fragments  were  vere  hospitibus 
sacra.  But  of  one  thing  or  another  there  was 
always  enough,  and  leavings  :  only  he  would  some- 
times finish  the  remainder  crust,  to  show  that  he 
wished  no  savings. 

Wine  we  had  none ;  nor,  except  on  very  rare  oc- 
casions, spirits  ;  but  the  sensation  of  wine  was 
there.     Some   thin    kind    of   ale   I   remember — 


68  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

"  British  beverage,"  he  would  say !  "  Push  about, 
my  boys;"  "Drink  to  your  sweethearts,  girls." 
At  eveiy  meagre  draught  a  toast  must  ensue,  or  a 
song.  All  the  forms  of  good  liquor  were  there, 
with  none  of  the  effects  wanting.  Shut  your  eyes, 
and  you  would  swear  a  capacious  bowl  of  punch 
was  foaming  in  the  centre,  with  beams  of  generous 
Port  or  Madeira  radiating  to  it  from  each  of  the 
table  corners.  You  got  flustered,  without  knowing 
whence  ;  tipsy  upon  words  ;  and  reeled  under  the 
potency  of  his  unperforming  Bacchanalian  en- 
couragements. 

We  had  our  songs— "Why,  Soldiers,  why,"— 
and  the  "British  Grenadiers  "—in  which  last  we 
were  all  obliged  to  bear  chorus.  Both  the  daughters 
sang.  Their  proficiency  was  a  nightly  theme — the 
masters  he  had  given  them — the  "no-expense" 
which  he  spared  to  accomplish  them  in  a  science 
"  so  necessary  to  young  women."  But  then — they 
could  not  sing  "without  the  instrument." 

Sacred,  and,  by  me,  never-to-be-violated,  secrets 
of  Poverty  !  Should  I  disclose  your  honest  aims 
at  grandeur,  your  makeshift  efforts  of  magnificence? 
Sleep,  sleep,  with  all  thy  broken  keys,  if  one  of 
the  bunch  be  extant ;  thrummed  by  a  thousand 
ancestral  thumbs  ;  dear,  cracked  spinnet  of  dearer 
Louisa  !  Without  mention  of  mine,  be  dumb,  thou 
thin  accompanier  of  her  thinner  warble  !  A  veil 
be  spread  over  the  dear  delighted  face  of  the  well- 
deluded  father,  who  now  haply  listening  to  cheru- 
bic notes,  scarce  feels  sincerer  pleasure  than  when 
she  awakened  thy  time-shaken  chords  respoiisive 
to  the  twitterings  of  that  slender  image  of  a  voice. 
We  were  not  without  our  literary  talk  either.  It 
did  not  extend  far,  but  as  far  as  it  went  it  was 
good.     It  was  bottomed  well  ;  had  good  grounds 


CAPTAIN  JACKSON.  69 

to  go  upon.  In  the  cottage  was  a  room,  which  tra- 
dition authenticated  to  have  been  the  same  in  which 
Glover,  in  his  occasional  retirements,  had  penned 
the  greater  part  of  his  Leonidas.  This  circum- 
stance was  nightly  quoted,  though  none  of  the  pre- 
sent inmates,  that  I  could  discover,  appeared  ever 
to  have  met  with  the  poem  in  question.  But  that 
was  no  matter.  Glover  had  written  there,  and  the 
anecdote  was  pressed  into  the  account  of  the  family 
importance.  It  diffused  a  learned  air  through  the 
apartment,  the  little  side  casement  of  which  (the 
poet's  study  window),  opening  upon  a  superb  view  as 
far  as  the  pretty  spire  of  Harrow,  over  domains  and 
patrimonial  acres,  not  a  rood  nor  square  yard  where- 
of our  host  could  call  his  own,  yet  gave  occasion 
to  an  immoderate  expansion  of — vanity  shall  I  call 
it  ? — in  his  bosom,  as  he  showed  them  in  a  glowing 
summer  evening.  It  was  all  his,  he  took  it  all  in, 
and  communicated  rich  portions  to  his  guests.  It 
was  a  part  of  his  largess,  his  hospitality  ;  it  was 
going  over  his  grounds  ;  he  was  lord  for  the  time 
of  showing  them,  and  you  the  implicit  lookers-up 
to  his  magnificence. 

He  was  a  juggler,  who  threw  mists  before  your 
eyes — you  had  no  time  to  detect  his  fallacies.  He 
would  say,  "  Hand  me  the  silver  sugar-tongs  ;  " 
and  before  you  could  discover  it  was  a  single  spoon, 
and  that  plated,  he  would  disturb  and  captivate 
vour  imagination  by  a  misnomer  of  "the  urn  "  for 
a  tea-kettle  ;  or  by  calling  a  homely  bench  a  sofa. 
Rich  men  direct  you  to  their  furniture,  poor  ones 
divert  you  from  it  ;  he  neither  did  one  nor  the 
other,  but  by  simply  assuming  that  everything  was 
handsome  about  him,  you  were  positively  at  a 
demur  what  you  did,  or  did  not  see,  at  the  cottage. 
With  nothing  to  live  on,  he  seemed  to  live  on  every- 


70  LAST  £SSAys  OF  ELI  A. 

thing.  He  had  a  stock  of  wealth  inhis  mind ;  not  that 
which  is  properly  termed  Content,  for  in  truth  he  was 
not  to  be  contained  at  all,  but  overflowed  all  bounds 
by  the  force  of  a  magnificent  self-delusion. 

Enthusiasm  is  catching ;  and  even  his  wife,  a 
sober  native  of  North  Britain,  who  generally  saw 
things  more  as  they  were,  was  not  proof  against 
the  continual  collision  of  his  credulity.  Her 
daughters  were  rational  and  discreet  young  women ; 
in  the  main,  peihaps,  not  insensible  to  their  true 
circumstances.  I  have  seen  them  assume  a 
thoughtful  air  at  times.  But  such  was  the  pre- 
ponderating opulence  of  his  fancy,  that  I  am  per- 
suaded not  for  any  half  hour  together  did  they  ever 
look  their  own  prospects  fairly  in  the  face.  There 
was  no  resisting  the  vortex  of  his  temperament. 
His  riotous  imagination  conjured  up  handsome 
settlements  before  their  eyes,  which  kept  them  up 
in  the  eye  of  the  world  too,  and  seem  at  last  to 
have  realized  themselves ;  for  they  both  have 
married  since,  I  am  told,  more  than  respectably. 

It  is  long  since,  and  my  memory  waxes  dim  on 
some  subjects,  or  I  should  wish  to  convey  some 
notion  of  the  manner  in  which  the  pleasant  creature 
described  the  circumstances  of  his  own  wedding- 
day.  I  faintly  remember  something  of  a  chaise- 
and-four,  in  which  he  made  his  entry  into  Glasgow 
on  that  morning  to  fetch  the  bride  home,  or  cany 
her  thither,  I  forget  which.  It  so  completely  made 
out  the  stanza  of  the  old  ballad — 

■WTien  we  came  down  through  Glasgow  town, 

We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see  ; 
My  love  was  clad  in  black  velvet, 

And  1  myself  in  cramasie. 

T  suppose  it  was  the  only  occasion  upon  which 
his  own  actual  splendour  at  all  corresponded  with 


CAPTAIN  JACKSON.  71 

the  world's  notions  on  that  subject.  In  homely 
cart,  or  travelling  caravan,  by  whatever  humble 
vehicle  they  chanced  to  be  transported  in  less  pros- 
perous days,  the  ride  through  Glasgow  came  back 
upon  his  fancy,  not  as  a  humiliating  contrast,  but 
as  a  fair  occasion  for  reverting  to  that  one  day's 
state.  It  seemed  an  "equipage  etern  "  from  which 
no  power  of  fate  or  fortune,  once  mounted,  had 
power  thereafter  to  dislodge  him. 

There  is  some  merit  in  putting  a  handsome  face 
upon  indigent  circumstances.  To  bully  and 
swagger  away  the  sense  of  them  before  strangers, 
may  not  be  always  discommendable.  1  ibbs,  and 
Bobadil,  even  when  detected,  have  more  of  our  ad- 
miration than  contempt.  But  for  a  man  to  put 
the  cheat  upon  himself;  to  play  the  Bobadil  at 
home ;  and,  steeped  in  poverty  up  to  the  lips,  to 
fancy  himself  all  the  while  chin-deep  in  riches,  is  a 
strain  of  constitutional  philosophy,  and  a  mastery 
over  fortune,  which  was  reserved  for  my  old  friend 
Captain  Jackson. 


THE    SUPERANNUATED    MAN. 


Sera  tamen  respexit 
Libertas.  — Virgi  l. 

A  Clerk  I  was  in  London  gay. — O'Keefe. 

F  peradventuie,  Reader,  it  has  been  thy 
lot  to  waste  the  golden  years  of  thy  life 
— thy  shining  youth — in  the  irksome 
confinement  of  an  office  ;  to  have  thy 
prison  days  prolonged  through  middle  age  down 
to  decrepitude  and  silver  hairs,  without  hope  of 
release  or  respite  ;  to  have  lived  to  forget  that 
there  are  such  things  as  holidays,  or  to  remem- 
ber them  but  as  the  prerogatives  of  childhood  ; 
then,  and  then  only,  will  you  be  able  to  appreciate 
my  deliverance. 

It  is  now  six-and-thirty  years  since  I  took  my 
seat  at  the  desk  in  Mincing  Lane.  Melancholy 
was  the  transition  at  fourteen  from  the  abundant 
playtime,  and  the  frequently-intervening  vacations 
of  school  days,  to  the  eight,  nine,  and  sometimes 
ten  hours'  a-day  attendance  at  the  counting-house. 
But  time  partially  reconciles  us  to  anything,  I 
gradually  became  content — doggedly  contented,  as 
wild  animals  in  cages. 

It  is  true  I  had  my  Sundays  to  myself  ;  but  Sun- 
days, admirable  as  the  institution  of  them  is  for 


THE  SUPERANNUATED  MAN.  73 

purposes  of  worship,  are  for  that  very  reason  the 
very  worst  adapted  for  days  of  unbending  and  re- 
creation.' In  particular,  there  is  a  gloom  for  me 
attendant  upon  a  city  Sunday,  a  weight  in  the  air. 
1  miss  the  cheerful  cries  of  London,  the  music,  and 
the  ballad -singers — the  buzz  and  stirring  murmur 
of  the  streets.  Those  eternal  bells  depress  me. 
The  closed  shops  repel  me.  Prints,  pictures,  all 
the  glittering  and  endless  succession  of  knacks  and 
gewgaws,  and  ostentatiously  displayed  wares  of 
tradesmen,  which  make  a  week-day  saunter  through 
the  less  busy  parts  of  the  metropolis  so  delightful 
— are  shut  out.  No  book-stalls  deliciously  to  idle 
over — no  busy  faces  to  recreate  the  idle  man  who 
contemplates  them  ever  passing  by — the  very  face 
of  business  a  charm  by  contrast  to  his  temporary 
relaxation  from  it.  Nothing  to  be  seen  but  un- 
happy countenances — or  half-happy  at  best — of 
emancipated  'prentices  and  little  tradesfolks,  with 
here  and  there  a  servant-maid  that  has  got  leave  to 
go  out,  who,  slaving  all  the  week,  with  the  habit 
has  lost  almost  the  capacity  of  enjoying  a  free  hour; 
and  livelily  expressing  the  hollownc^s  of  a  day's 
pleasuring.  The  very  strollers  in  the  fields  on 
that  day  look  anything  but  comfortable. 

But  besides  Sundays,  I  had  a  day  at  Easter,  and 

'  [Our  ancestors,  the  noble  old  Puritans  of  Cromwell's 
clay,  could  distinguish  between  a  day  of  religions  rest  and 
a  day  of  recreation  ;  and  while  they  exacted  a  rigorous 
abstinence  from  all  amusements  (even  to  the  walking  out  of 
nurserymaids  with  their  little  charges  in  the  fields)  upon  the 
Sabbath  ;  in  the  lieu  of  the  superstitious  observance  of  the 
saints'  days,  which  they  abrogated,  they  humanely  gave  to 
the  apprentices  and  poorer  sort  of  people  every  alternate 
Thursday  for  a  day  of  entire  sport  and  recreation.  A  strain 
of  piety  and  policy  to  be  commended  above  the  profane 
mockery  of  the  Stuarts  and  their  book  of  spoits.l 


74  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

a  day  at  Christmas,  with  a  full  week  in  the  summei 
to  go  and  air  myself  in  my  native  fields  of  Hert- 
fordshire. This  last  was  a  great  indulgence  ;  and 
the  prospect  of  its  recurrence,  I  believe,  alone  kept 
me  up  through  the  year,  and  made  my  durance 
tolerable.  But  when  the  week  came  round,  did 
the  glittering  phantom  of  the  distance  keep  touch 
with  me  ?  or  rather  was  it  not  a  series  of  seven 
uneasy  days,  spent  in  restless  pursuit  of  pleasure, 
and  a  wearisome  anxiety  to  find  out  how  to  make 
the  most  of  them  ?  Where  was  the  quiet,  where 
the  promised  rest  ?  Before  I  had  a  taste  of  it,  it 
was  vanished.  I  was  at  the  desk  again,  counting 
upon  the  fifty-one  tedious  weeks  that  must  intervene 
before  such  another  snatch  would  come.  Still_  the 
prospect  of  its  coming  threw  something  of  an  illu- 
mination upon  the  darker  side  of  my  captivity. 
Without  it,  as  I  have  said,  I  could  scarcely  have 
>ustained  my  thraldom. 

Independently  of  the  rigours  of  attendance,  I 
have  ever  been  haunted  with  a  sense  (perhaps  a 
mere  caprice)  of  incapacity  for  business.  This, 
during  my  latter  years,  had  increased  to  such  a  de- 
gree, that  it  was  visible  in  all  the  lines  of  my  coun- 
tenance. My  health  and  my  good  spirits  flagged. 
I  had  perpetually  a  dread  of  some  crisis,  to  which 
I  should  be  found  unequal.  Besides  my  daylight 
servitude,  I  sei-ved  ovef  again  all  night  in  my  sleep, 
and  would  awake  with  terrors  of  imaginary  false 
entries,  errors  in  my  accounts,  and  the  like.  I 
was  fifty  years  of  age',  and  no  prospect  of  emanci- 
pation presented  itself.  I  had  grown  to  my  desk, 
as  it  were  ;  and  the  wood  had  entered  into  my  soul. 
My  fellows  in  the  office  would  sometimes  rally 
me  upon  the  trouble  legible  in  my  countenance ; 
but  I  did  not  know  that  it  had  raised  the  sus- 


THE  SUPERANNUATED  MAN.  75 

picions  of  any  of  my  employers,  when,  on  the  fifth 
of  last  month,  a  day  ever  to  be  remembered  by 

me,  L ,  the  junior  partner  in  the  firm,  calling 

me  on  one  side,  directly  taxed  me  with  my  bad 
looks,  and  frankly  inquired  the  cause  of  them.  So 
taxed,  I  honestly  made  confession  of  my  infirmity, 
and  added  that  I  was  afraid  I  should  eventually  be 
obliged  to  resign  his  service.  He  spoke  some 
words  of  course  to  hearten  me,  and  there  the  matter 
rested,  A  whole  week  I  remained  labouring  under 
the  impression  that  I  had  acted  imprudently  in  my 
disclosure  ;  that  I  had  foolishly  given  a  handle 
against  myself,  and  had  been  anticipating  my  own 
dismissal.  A  week  passed  in  this  manner — the 
most  anxious  one,  I  verily  believe,  in  my  whole 
life — when  on  the  evening  of  the  I2th  of  April, 
just  as  I  was  about  quitting  my  desk  to  go  home 
(it  might  be  about  eight  o'clock),  I  received  an 
awful  summons  to  attend  the  presence  of  the  whole 
assembled  firm  in  the  formidable  back  parlour.  I 
thought  now  my  time  is  surely  come,  I  have  done 
for  myself,  I  am  going  to  be  told  that  they  have 

no  longer  occasion  for  me.     L ,  I  could  see, 

smiled  at  the  terror  I  was  in,  which  was  a  little  relief 

to  me, — when  to  my  utter  astonishment  B ,  the 

eldest  partner,  began  a  formal  harangue  to  me  on  the 
length  of  my  services,  my  very  meritorious  conduct 
during  the  whole  of  the  time  (the  deuce,  thought 
I,  how  did  he  find  out  that  ?  I  protest  I  never 
had  the  confidence  to  think  as  much).  lie  went 
on  to  descant  on  the  expediency  of  retiring  at  a 
certain  time  of  life  (how  my  heart  panted!),  and 
asking  me  a  few  questions  as  to  the  amount  of  my 
own  property,  of  which  I  have  a  little,  ended  with 
a  proposal,  to  which  his  three  partners  nodded  a 
grave  assent,  that  I  should  accept  from  the  house, 


76  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  EL! A. 

which  I  had  served  so  well,  a  pension  for  life  to 
the  amount  of  two-thirds  of  my  accustomed  salary 
—a  magnificent  offer!  I  do  not  know  what  I 
answered  between  surprise  and  gratitude,  but  it 
was  understood  that  I  accepted  their  proposal,  and 
I  was  told  that  I  was  free  from  that  hour  to  leave 
their  service.  I  stammered  out  a  bow,  and  at  just 
ten  minutes  after  eight  I  went  home — for  ever. 
This  noble  benefit — gratitude  forbids  me  to  conceal 
their  names — I  owe  to  the  kindness  of  the  most 
munificent  firm  in  the  world — the  house  of  Boldero, 
Merryweather,  Bosanquet,  and  Lacy. 

Esto  perpetua  1 

For  the  first  day  or  two  I  felt  stunned — over- 
whelmed. I  could  only  apprehend  my  felicity  ;  I 
was  too  confused  to  taste  it  sincerely.  I  wandered 
about,  thinking  I  was  happy,  and  knowing  that  I 
was  not.  I  was  in  the  condition  of  a  prisoner  in 
the  old  Bastile,  suddenly  let  loose  after  a  forty 
years'  confinement.  I  could  scarce  trust  myself 
with  myself.  It  was  like  passing  out  of  Time  into 
Eternity — for  it  is  a  sort  of  Eternity  for  a  man  to 
have  all  his  Time  to  himself.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  had  more  time  on  my  hands  than  I  could  ever 
manage.  From  a  poor  man,  poor  in  Time,  I  was 
suddenly  lifted  up  into  a  vast  revenue;  I  could  see 
no  end  of  my  possessions  ;  I  wanted  some  steward, 
or  judicious  bailiff,  to  manage  my  estates  in  Time 
for  me.  And  here  let  me  caution  persons  grown 
old  in  active  business,  not  lightly,  nor  without 
weighing  their  own  resources,  to  forego  their  cus- 
tomary employment  all  at  once,  for  there  may  be 
danger  in  it.  I  feel  it  by  myself,  but  I  know  that 
my  resources  are  sufficient ;  and  now  that  those 
first  giddy  raptures  have  subsided,  I  have  a  quiet 


THE  SUPERANNUATED  MAN.  77 

home-feeling  of  the  blessedness  of  my  condition. 
I  am  in  no  hurry.  Having  all  holidays,  I  am  as 
though  I  had  none.  It  Time  hung  heavy  upon 
me,  I  could  walk  it  away  ;  but  I  do  not  walk  all 
day  long,  as  I  used  to  do  in  those  old  transient 
holidays,  thirty  miles  a  day,  to  make  the  most  of 
them.  If  Time  were  troublesome,  I  could  read  it 
away  ;  but  I  do  not  read  in  that  violent  measure, 
with  which,  having  no  Time  my  own  but  candle- 
light Time,  I  used  to  weary  out  my  head  and  eye- 
sight in  bygone  winters.  I  walk,  read,  or  scribble 
(as  now)  just  when  the  fit  seizes  me.  I  no  longer 
hunt  after  pleasure ;  I  let  it  come  to  me.  I  am 
like  the  man 

•  that's  born,  and  has  his  years  come  to  him, 


In  jome  g^en  desert. 

' '  Years ! "  you  will  say ; ' '  what  is  this  superannuated 
simpleton  calculating  upon  ?  He  has  already  told 
us  he  is  past  fifty." 

I  have  indeed  lived  nominally  fifty  years,  but 
deduct  out  of  them  the  hours  which  I  have  lived  to 
other  people,  and  not  to  myself,  and  you  will  find 
me  still  a  young  fellow.  For  that  is  the  only  true 
Time,  which  a  man  can  properly  call  his  own — that 
which  he  has  all  to  himself;  the  rest,  though  in  some 
sense  he  may  be  said  to  live  it,  is  other  people's 
Time,  not  his.  The  remnant  of  my  poor  days, 
long  or  short,  is  at  least  multiplied  for  me  threefold. 
My  ten  next  years,  if  I  stretch  so  far,  will  be  as 
long  as  any  preceding  thirty.  'Tis  a  fair  rule-of- 
three  sum. 

Among  the  strange  fantasies  which  beset  me  at 
the  commencement  of  my  freedom,  and  of  which 
all  traces  are  not  yet  gone,  one  was,  that  a  vast 
tract  of  time  had  intervened   since  I   quitted  the 


78  LAST  ESSAVS  OF  ELIA. 

Counting  House.  I  could  not  conceive  of  it  as  an 
affair  of  yesterday.  The  partners,  and  the  clerks 
with  whom  I  had  for  so  many  years,  and  for  so 
many  hours  in  each  day  of  the  year,  been  closely 
associated — being  suddenly  removed  from  them — 
they  seemed  as  dead  to  me.  There  is  a  fine  pas- 
sage, which  may  serve  to  illustrate  this  fancy,  in  a 
Tragedy  by  Sir  Robert  Howard,  speaking  of  a 
friend's  death : — 

'Twas  but  just  now  lie  went  away  ; 

I  have  not  since  had  time  to  shed  a  tear : 
And  yet  the  distance  does  the  same  appear 
As  if  he  had  been  a  thousand  years  from  me. 
Time  takes  no  measure  in  Eternity. 

To  dissipate  this  awkward  feeling,  I  have  been 
fain  to  go  among  them  once  or  twice  since  ;  to  visit 
my  old  desk-fellows — my  co-brethren  of  the  quill — 
that  I  had  left  below  in  the  state  militant.  Not  all 
the  kindness  with  which  they  received  me  could 
quite  restore  to  me  that  pleasant  familiarity,  which 
I  had  heretofore  enjoyed  among  them.  We 
cracked  some  of  our  old  jokes,  but  methought  they 
went  off  but  faintly.  My  old  desk ;  the  peg  where 
I  hung  my  hat,  were  appropriated  to  another.  I 
knew  it  must  be,  but  I  could  not  take  it  kindly. 

D 1  take  me,  if  I  did  not  feel  some  remorse — 

beast,  if  I  had  not — at  quitting  mj'  old  compeers, 
the  faithful  partners  of  my  toils  for  six-and-thirty 
years,  that  smoothed  for  me  with  their  jokes  and 
conundrums  the  ruggedness  of  my  professional 
road.  Had  it  been  so  rugged  then,  after  all  ?  or 
was  I  a  coward  simply  ?  Well,  it  is  too  late  to  re- 
pent ;  and  I  also  know  that  these  suggestions  are  a 
common  fallacy  of  the  mind  on  such  occasions. 
But  my  heart  smote  me.  I  had  violently  broken 
the  bands  betwixt  us.    •  It  was  at  least  not  courteous. 


THE  SUPERANNUATED  MAN.  79 

I  shall  be  some  time  before  I  get  quite  reconciled  to 
the  separation.  Farewell,  old  cronies,  yet  not  for 
long,  for  again  and  again  I  will  come  among  ye,  if  I 

shall  have  your  leave.     Farewell,  Ch ,    dry, 

sarcastic,   and  friendly  !      Do ,  mild,  slow  to 

move,  and  gentlemanly  !     PI ,  officious  to  do, 

and  to  volunteer,  good  services  ! — and  thou,  thou 
dreary  pile,  fit  mansion  for  a  Gresham  or  a  Whit- 
tington  of  old,  stately  house  of  Merchants ;  with 
thy  labyrinthine  passages,  and  light-excluding, 
pent-up  offices,  where  candles  for  one-half  the  year 
supplied  the  place  of  the  sun's  light ;  unhealthy 
contributor  to  my  weal,  stern  fosterer  of  my  living, 
farewell  !  In  thee  remain,  and  not  in  the  obscure 
collection  of  some  wandering  bookseller,  my 
"  works  !"  There  let  them  rest,  as  I  do  from  my 
labours,  piled  on  thy  massy  shelves,  more  MSS.  in 
foHo  than  ever  Aquinas  left,  and  full  as  useful  ! 
My  mantle  I  bequeath  among  ye. 

A  fortnight  has  passed  since  the  date  of  my  first 
communication.  At  that  period  I  was  approaching 
to  tranquillity,  but  had  not  reached  it.  I  boasted 
of  a  calm  indeed,  but  it  was  comparative  only. 
Something  ofthe  first  flutter  was  left  ;  an  unsettling 
sense  of  novelty  ;  the  dazzle  to  weak  eyes  of  un- 
accustomed light.  I  missed  my  old  chains,  for- 
sooth, as  if  they  had  been  some  necessary  part  of 
my  apparel.  I  was  a  poor  Carthusian,  from  strict 
cellular  discipline  suddenly  by  some  revolution  re- 
turned upon  the  world.  I  am  now  as  if  I-tiad  never 
been  other  than  my  own  master.  It  is  natural  for 
me  to  go  where  I  please,  to  do  what  I  please.  I 
find  myself  at  1 1  o'clock  in  the  day  in  Bond  Street, 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been  sauntering  there 
at  that  very  hour  for  years  past.  I  digress  into  Soho, 
to  explore  a  bookstall.      Methinks  I  have  been 


^  LAST  ESSAYS   OF  ELI  A. 

thirty  years  a  collector.  There  is  nothing  strange 
nor  new  in  it.  I  find  myself  before  a  fine  picture 
in  the  morning.  Was  it  ever  otherwise  ?  What  is 
become  of  Fish  Street  Hill  ?  Where  is  Fenchurch 
Street?  Stones  of  old  Mincing  Lane,  which  I  have 
worn  with  my  daily  pilgrimage  for  six-and- thirty 
years,  to  the  footsteps  of  what  toil-worn  clerk  are 
your  everlasting  flints  now  vocal?  I  indent  the 
gayer  flags  of  Pall  Mall.  It  is  'Change  time,  and 
I  am  strangely  among  the  Elgin  marbles.  It  was 
no  hyperbole  when  I  ventured  to  compare  the 
change  in  my  condition  to  passing  into  another 
world.  Time  stands  still  in  a  manner  to  me.  I 
have  lost  all  distinction  of  season.  I  do  not  know 
the  day  of  ifie  week  or  of  the  month.  Each  day 
used  to  be  individually  felt  by  me  in  its  reference 
to  the  foreign  post  days  ;  in  its  distance  from,  or 
propinquity  to,  the  next  Sunday.  I  had  my  Wed- 
nesday feelings,  my  Saturday  nights'  sensations. 
The  genius  of  each  day  was  upon  me  distinctly 
during  the  whole  of  it,  affecting  my  appetite,  spirits, 
&c.  The  phantom  of  the  next  day,  with  the  dreary 
five  to  follow,  sate  as  a  load  upon  my  poor  Sabbath 
recreations.  What  charm  has  washed  that  Ethiop 
white?  What  is  gone  of  Black  Monday?  All 
days  are  the  same.  Sunday  itself — that  unfortu- 
nate failure  of  a  holiday,  as  it  too  often  proved, 
what  with  my  sense  of  its  fugitiveness,  and  over- 
care  to  get  the  greatest  quantity  of  pleasure  out  of 
it  —is  melted  down  into  a  week-day.  I  can  spare 
to  go  to  church  now,  without  grudging  the  huge 
cantle  which  it  used  to  seem  to  cut  out  of  the  holi- 
day. I  have  time  for  everything.  I  can  visit  a 
sick  friend.  I  can  interrupt  the  man  of  much  oc- 
cupation when  he  is  busiest.  I  can  insult  over  him 
with  an  invitation  to  take  a  day's  pleasure  with  me 


THE  SUPERANNUATED  MAN.  8i 

to  Windsor  this  fine  May-morning.  It  is  lAicretian 
pleasure  to  behold  the  poor  drudges,  whom  I  have 
left  behind  in  the  world,  carking  and  caring  ;  like 
horses  in  a  mill,  drudging  on  in  the  same  eternal 
round  — and  what  is  it  all  for?  A  man  can  never 
have  too  much  Time  to  himself,  nor  too  little  to  do. 
Had  I  a  little  son,  I  would  christen  him  Nothing- 
TO-DO  ;  he  should  do  nothing.  Man,  I  verily  be- 
lieve, is  out  of  his  element  as  long  as  he  is  opera- 
tive. I  am  altogether  for  the  life  contemplative. 
Will  no  kindly  earthquake  come  and  swallow  up 
those  accursed  cotton-mills  ?  Take  me  that  lumber 
of  a  desk  there,  and  bowl  it  down 

As  low  as  to  the  fiends. 

I  am  no  longer  ******j  clerk  to  the  Firm  of,  &c. 
I  am  Retired  Leisure.  I  am  to  be  met  with  in 
trim  gardens.  I  am  already  come  to  be  known  by 
my  vacant  face  and  careless  gesture,  perambulating 
at  no  fixed  pace,  nor  with  any  settled  purpose.  I 
walk  about  ;  not  to  and  from  They  tell  me,  a 
certain  cum  dignitate  air,  that  has  been  buried  so 
long  with  my  other  good  parts,  has  begim  to  shoot 
forth  in  my  person.  I  gi-ow  into  gentility  percep- 
tibly. When  I  take  up  a  newspaper,  it  is  to  read 
the  state  of  the  opera.  Opus  operatum  est.  I  have 
done  all  that  I  came  into  this  vs'orld  to  do.  I  have 
worked  task-work,  and  have  the  rest  of  the  day  to 
myself. 


THE  GENTEEL  STYLE  IN  WRITING. 


[T  is  an  ordinary  criticism,  tliat  my  Lord 
Shaftesbury  and  Sir  William  Temple 
are  models  of  the  genteel  style  in  writ- 
ing. We  should  prefer  saying — of  the 
lordly,  and  the  gentlemanly.  Nothing  can  be 
more  unlike,  than  the  inflated  finical  rhapsodies 
of  Shaftesbury,  and  the  plain  natural  chit-chat 
of  Temple.  The  man  of  rank  is  discernible  in 
both  writers  ;  but  in  the  one  it  is  only  insinu- 
ated gracefully,  in  the  other  it  stands  out  offen- 
sively. The  peer  seems  to  have  written  with  his 
coronet  on,  and  his  Earl's  mantle  before  him  ;  the 
cvaimoner  in  his  elbow-chair  and  undress. — What 
can  be  more  pleasant  than  the  way  in  which  the 
retired  statesman  peeps  out  in  his  essays,  penned 
by  the  latter  in  his  delightful  retreat  at  Shene? 
They  scent  of  Nimeguen  and  the  Hague.  Scarce 
an  authority  is  quoted  under  an  ambassador.  Don 
Francisco  de  Melo,  a  "Portugal  Envoy  in  Eng- 
land," tells  him  it  was  frequent  in  his  country  for 
men,  spent  with  age  and  other  decays,  so  as  they 
could  not  hope  for  above  a  year  or  two  of  life,  to 
ship  themselves  away  in  a  Brazil  fleet,  and  after 
their  arrival  there  to  go  on  a  great  length,  some- 
times of  twenty  or  thirty  years,   or  more,   by  the 


THE  GENTEEL   STYLE  IN   WRITING.      83 

force  of  that  vigour  they  recovered  with  that  remove. 
"Whether  such  an  effect  (Temple  beautifully  adds) 
might  grow  from  the  air,  or  the  fruits  of  that  climate, 
or  by  approaching  nearer  the  sun,  which  is  the 
fountain  of  light  and  heat,  when  their  natural  heat 
was  so  far  decayed  ;  or  whether  the  piecing  out  of 
an  old  man's  life  were  worth  the  pains  ;  I  cannot 
tell:  perhaps  the  play  is  not  worth  the  candle." 
Monsieur  Pompone,  "  P>ench  Ambassador  in  his 
(Sir  William's)  time  at  the  Hague,"  certifies  him, 
that  in  his  life  he  had  never  heard  of  any  man  in 
France  that  arrived  at  a  hundred  years  of  age  ;  a 
limitation  of  life  which  the  old  gentleman  imputes 
to  the  excellence  of  their  climate,  giving  them  such 
a  liveliness  of  temper  and  humour,  as  disposes  them 
to  more  pleasures  of  all  kinds  than  in  other  coun- 
tries ;  and  moralizes  upon  the  matter  very  sensibly. 
The  ' '  late  Robert  Earl  of  Leicester  "  furnishes  him 
with  a  story  of  a  Countess  of  Desmond,  married 
out  of  England  in  Edward  the  Fourth's  time,  and 
who  lived  far  in  King  James's  reign.  The  "same 
noble  person  "  gives  him  an  account,  how  such  a 
year,  in  the  same  reign,  there  went  about  the  coun- 
try a  set  of  morrice-dancers,  composed  of  ten  men 
who  danced,  a  Maid  Marian,  and  a  tabor  and  pipe  : 
and  how  these  twelve,  one  with  another,  made  up 
twelve  hundred  years.  "  It  was  not  so  much  (says 
Temple)  that  so  many  in  one  small  county  (Hert- 
fordshire) should  live  to  that  age,  as  that  they 
should  be  in  vigour  and  in  humour  to  travel  and  to 
dance."  Monsieur  Zulichem,  one  of  his  "collea- 
gues at  the  Hague,"  informs  him  of  a  cure  for  the 
gout;  which  is  confirmed  by  another  "Envoy," 
Monsieur  Serinchamps,  in  that  town,  who  had 
Iried  it. — Old  Prince  Maurice  of  Nassau  recom- 
mends to  him  the  use  of  hammocks  in  that  com- 


?4  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

plaint ;  having  been  allured  to  sleep,  while  suffering 
under  it  himself,  by  the  "  constant  motion  or 
swinging  of  those  airy  beds."  Count  Egmont,  and 
the  Rhinegrave  who  "  was  killed  last  summer  be- 
fore Maestricht,"  impart  to  him  their  experiences. 
But  the  rank  of  the  writer  is  never  more  inno- 
cently disclosed,  than  where  he  takes  for  granted 
the  compliments  paid  by  foreigners  to  his  fruit-trees. 
For  the  taste  and  perfection  of  what  we  esteem  the 
best,  he  can  truly  say,  that  the  French,  who  have 
eaten  his  peaches  and  grapes  at  Shene,  in  no  very 
ill  year,  have  generally  concluded  that  the  last  are 
as  good  as  any  they  have  eaten  in  France  on  this 
side  Fontainebleau  ;  and  the  first  as  good  as  any 
they  have  eat  in  Gascony.  Italians  have  agreed 
his  white  figs  to  be  as  good  as  any  of  that  sort  in 
Italy,  which  is  the  earlier  kind  of  white  fig  there  ; 
for  in  the  latter  kind  and  the  blue,  we  cannot  come 
near  the  warm  climates,  no  more  than  in  the  Fron- 
tigTiac  or  Muscat  grape.  His  orange- trees,  too, 
are  as  large  as  any  he  saw  when  he  was  young  in 
France,  except  those  of  Fontainebleau  ;  or  what  he 
had  seen  since  in  the  Low  Countries,  except  some 
very  old  ones  of  the  Prince  of  Orange's.  Of  grapes 
he  had  the  honour  of  bringing  over  four  sorts  into 
England,  which  he  enumerates,  and  supposes  that 
they  are  all  by  this  time  pretty  common  among 
some  gardeners  in  his  neighbourhood,  as  well  as 
several  persons  of  quality  ;  for  he  ever  thought  all 
things  of  this  kind  "the  commoner  they  are  made 
the  better."  The  garden  pedantry  with  which  he 
asserts  that  'tis  to  little  purpose  to  plant  any  of  the 
best  fruits,  as  peaches  or  grapes,  hardly,  he  doubts, 
beyond  Northamptonshire  at  the  farthest  north- 
wards ;  and  praises  the  "  Bishop  of  Munster  at 
Cosevelt,"  for  attempting  nothing  beyond  cherries 


THE  GENTEEL  STVLE  IN  WRITING.      85 

in  that  cold  climate;  is  equally  pleasant  and  in 
character.  "I  may  perhaps"  (he  thus  ends  his 
sweet  Garden  Essay  with  a  passage  worthy  of 
Cowley)  "be  allowed  to  know  something  of  this 
trade,  since  I  have  so  long  allowed  myself  to  be 
good  for  nothing  else,  which  few  men  will  do,  or 
enjoy  their  gardens,  without  often  looking  abroad 
to  see  how  other  matters  play,  what  motions  in  the 
state,  and  what  invitations  they  may  hope  for  into 
other  scenes.  For  my  own  part,  as  the  country 
life,  and  this  part  of  it  more  particularly,  were  the 
inclination  of  my  youth  itself,  so  they  are  the 
pleasures  of  my  age ;  and  I  can  truly  say  that, 
among  many  great  employments  that  have  fallen 
to  my  share,  I  have  never  asked  or  sought  for  any 
of  them,  but  have  often  endeavoured  to  escape  from 
them,  into  the  ease  and  freedom  of  a  private  scene, 
where  a  man  may  go  his  own  way  and  liis  own  pace 
in  the  common  paths  and  circles  of  life.  The 
measure  of  choosing  well  is  whether  a  man  likes 
what  he  has  chosen,  which,  I  thank  God,  has  be- 
fallen me  ;  and  though  among  the  follies  of  my  life, 
building  and  planting  have  not  been  the  least,  and 
have  cost  me  more  than  I  liave  the  confidence  to 
own  ;  yet  they  have  been  fully  recompensed  by  the 
sweetness  and  satisfaction  of  this  retreat,  where, 
since  my  resolution  taken  of  never  entering  again 
into  any  public  employments,  I  have  passed  five 
years  without  ever  once  going  to  town,  though 
I  am  almost  in  sight  of  it,  and  have  a  house 
there  always  ready  to  receive  me.  Nor  has  this 
been  any  sort  of  affectation,  as  some  have  thought 
it,  but  a  mere  want  of  desire  or  humour  to  make 
so  small  a  remove  ;  for  when  I  am  in  this  corner 
I  can  truly  say  with  Horace,  Me  quoties  reficii, 
&c. 


y.C  LAS  T  ESS  A  YS  OF  ELI  A 

Me,  when  the  cold  Digentian  stream  revives. 
What  does  my  friend  believe  I  think  or  ask  ? 
Let  me  yet  less  possess,  so  I  may  live, 
Whate'er  of  life  remains,  unto  myself. 
May  I  have  books  enough  ;  and  one  year's  store. 
Not  to  depend  upon  each  doubtful  hour  : 
This  is  enough  of  mighty  Jove  to  pray. 
Who,  as  he  pleases,  gives  and  takes  away. 

The  writings  of  Temple  are,  in  general,  after 
this  easy  copy.  On  one  occasion,  indeed,  his  wit, 
which  was  mostly  subordinate  to  nature  and  ten- 
derness, has  seduced  him  into  a  string  of  felicitous 
antitheses  ;  which,  it  is  obvious  to  remark,  have 
been  a  model  to  Addison  and  succeeding  essayists. 
"Who  would  not  be  covetous,  and  with  reason," 
he  says,  "  if  health  could  be  purchased  with  gold  ? 
who  not  ambitious,  if  it  were  at  the  command  of 
power,  or  restored  by  honour  ?  but,  alas  !  a  white 
staff  will  not  help  gouty  feet  to  walk  better  than  a 
common  cane  ;  nor  a  blue  riband  bind  up  a  wound 
so  well  as  a  fillet.  The  glitter  of  gold,  or  of  dia- 
monds, will  but  hurt  sore  eyes  instead  of  curing 
them  ;  and  an  aching  head  will  be  no  more  eased 
by  wearing  a  crown  than  a  common  nightcap."  In 
a  far  better  style,  and  more  accordant  with  his  own 
humour  of  plainness,  are  the  concluding  sentences 
of  his  "Discourse  upon  Poetiy."  Temple  took  a 
part  in  the  controversy  about  the  ancient  and  the 
modern  learning ;  and,  with  that  partiality  so  natural 
and  so  graceful  in  an  old  man,  whose  state  engage- 
ments had  left  him  little  leisure  to  look  into  modern 
productions,  while  his  retirement  gave  him  occasion 
to  look  back  upon  the  classic  studies  of  his  youth — 
decided  in  favour  of  the  latter.  "  Certain  it  is,"  he 
says,  "that,  whether  the  fierceness  of  the  Gothic 
humours,  or  noise  of  their  perpetual  wars,  frighted 
it  away,  or  that  the  unequal  mixture  of  the  modem 
languages  would  not  bear  it— the  great  heights  and 


THE  GENTEEL   STYLE  IN  WRITING.      87 

excellency  both  of  poetry  and  music  fell  with  the 
Roman  learning  and  empire,  and  have  never  since 
recovered  the  admiration  and  applauses  that  before 
attended  them.  Yet,  such  as  they  are  amongst  us, 
they  must  be  confessed  to  be  the  softest  and  the 
sweetest,  the  most  general  and  most  innocent  amuse- 
ments of  common  time  and  life.  They  still  find 
room  in  the  courts  of  princes,  and  the  cottages  of 
shepherds.  They  serve  to  revive  and  animate  the 
dead  calm  of  poor  and  idle  lives,  and  to  allay  or 
divert  the  violent  passions  and  perturbations  of  the 
greatest  and  the  busiest  men.  And  both  these 
effects  are  of  equal  use  to  human  life  ;  for  the  mind 
of  man  is  like  the  sea,  which  is  neither  agreeable  to 
the  beholder  nor  the  voyager,  in  a  calm  or  in  a 
storm,  but  is  so  to  both  when  a  little  agitated  by 
gentle  gales ;  and  so  the  mind,  when  moved  by 
soft  and  easy  passions  or  affections.  I  know  very 
well  that  many  who  pretend  to  be  wise  by  the 
forms  of  being  grave,  are  apt  to  despise  both  poetry 
and  music,  as  toys  and  trifles  too  light  for  the  use 
or  entertainment  of  serious  men.  But  whoever  find 
themselves  wholly  insensible  to  their  charms,  would, 
I  think,  do  well  to  keep  their  own  counsel,  for  fear  of 
reproaching  theirown  temper,  and  bringing  the  good- 
ness of  their  natures,  if  not  of  their  understandings, 
into  question.  While  this  world  lasts,  I  doubt  not 
but  the  pleasure  and  request  of  these  two  entertain- 
ments will  do  so  too  ;  and  happy  those  that  content 
themselves  with  these,  or  any  other  so  easy  and  so 
innocent,  and  do  not  trouble  the  world  or  other 
men,  because  they  cannot  be  quiet  themselves, 
though  nobody  hurts  them."  "  When  all  is  done 
'he  concludes),  human  life  is  at  the  greatest  and  the 
best  but  like  a  froward  child,  that  must  be  played 
with,  and  humoured  a  little,  to  keep  it  quiet,  till  it 
falls  asleep,  and  then  the  care  is  over," 


BARBARA    S- 


X  the  noon  of  the  14th  of  November, 
1743  or  4,  I  forget  which  it  was,  just  as 

the  clock  had  struck  one,  Barbara  S , 

with  her  accustomed  punctuahty,  as- 
cended the  long  rambUng  staircase,  ^vith  awkward 
interposed  landing-places,  which  led  to  the  office, 
or  rather  a  sort  of  box  with  a  desk  in  it,  whereat 
sat  the  then  treasurer  of  (what  few  of  our  readers 
may  remember)  the  old  Bath  Theatre.  All  over 
the  island  it  was  the  custom,  and  remains  so  I 
believe  to  this  day,  for  the  players  to  receive  their 
weekly  stipend  on  the  Saturday.  It  v/as  not  much 
that  Barbara  had  to  claim. 

The  little  maid  had  just  entered  her  eleventh 
year;  but  her  important  station  at  the  theatre,  as 
it  seemed  to  her,  with  the  benefits  which  she  felt 
to  accme  from  her  pious  application  of  her  small 
earnings,  had  given  an  air  of  womanhood  to  her 
steps  and  to  her  behaviour.  You  would  have  taken 
her  to  have  been  at  least  five  years  older. 

Till  latterly  she  had  merely  been  employed  in 
choruses,  or  \\ here  children  were  \\anted  to  fill  up 
the  scene.  But  the  manager,  observing  a  diligence 
and  adroitness  in  her  above  her  age,  had  for  some 
few  months  past  intrusted  to  her  the  performance  of 


BARBARA   S .  89 

whole  parts.  You  may  guess  the  self-consequence 
of  the  promoted  Barbara.  She  had  already  drawn 
tears  in  young  Arthur ;  had  rallied  Richard  with 
infantine  petulance  in  the  Duke  of  York;  and  in 
her  turn  had  rebuked  that  petulance  when  she  was 
Prince  of  Wales.  She  would  have  done  the  elder 
child  in  Morton's  pathetic  afterpiece  to  the  life; 
but  as  yet  the  "  Children  in  the  Wood  "  was  not. 

Long  after  this  little  girl  was  grown  an  aged 
woman,  I  have  seen  some  of  these  small  parts,  each 
making  two  or  three  pages  at  most,  copied  out  in 
the  rudest  hand  of  the  then  prompter,  who  doubt- 
less transcribed  a  little  more  carefully  and  fairly 
for  the  grown-up  tragedy  ladies  of  the  establish- 
ment. But  such  as  they  were,  blotted  and  scrawled, 
as  for  a  child's  use,  she  kept  them  all ;  and  in  the 
zenith  of  her  after  reputation  it  was  a  delightful 
sight  to  behold  them  bound  up  in  costliest  morocco, 
each  single — each  small  part  making  a  foij/j— with 
fine  clasps,  gilt-splashed,  &c.  She  liad  conscien- 
tiously kept  them  as  they  had  been  delivered  to 
her ;  not  a  blot  had  been  effaced  or  tampered  with. 
They  were  precious  to  her  for  their  affecting  re- 
membrancings.  They  were  her  principia,  her  ru- 
diments ;  the  elementary  atoms ;  the  little  steps  by 
which  she  pressed  forward  to  perfection.  "  What, '' 
she  would  say,  "could  India-rubber,  or  a  pumice- 
stone,  have  done  for  these  darlings  ?  " 

I  am  in  no  hurry  to  begin  my  story — indeed,  I 
have  little  or  none  to  tell — so  I  will  just  mention 
an  observation  of  hers  connected  with  that  in- 
teresting time. 

Not  long  before  she  died  I  had  been  discoursing 
with  her  on  the  quantity  of  real  present  emotion 
which  a  great  tragic  performer  experiences  during 
acting.     I  ventured  to  think,  that  though  in  the 


50  LAST  £SSAVS  OF  EL/A. 

first  instance  such  players  must  have  possessed  tlie 
feehngs  which  they  so  powerfully  called  up  in 
others,  yet  by  frequent  repetition  those  feelings  must 
become  deadened  in  great  measure,  and  the  per- 
former trust  to  the  memory  of  past  emotion,  rather 
than  express  a  present  one.  She  indignantly  re- 
pelled the  notion,  that  with  a  truly  great  tragedian 
the  operation,  by  which  such  effects  were  produced 
upon  an  audience,  could  ever  degrade  itself  into 
what  was  purely  mechanical.  With  much  delicacy, 
avoiding  to  instance  in  her  j^'Z/'-experience,  she  told 
me,  that  so  long  ago  as  when  she  used  to  play  the 
part  of  the  Little  Son  to  Mrs.  Porter's  Isabella  (I 
think  it  was),  when  that  impressive  actress  has  been 
bending  over  her  in  some  heartrending  colloquy, 
bhe  has  felt  real  hot  tears  come  trickling  from  her, 
which  (to  use  her  powerful  expression)  have  per- 
fectly scalded  her  back. 

I  am  not  quite  so  sure  that  it  was  Mrs.  Porter ; 
but  it  was  some  great  actress  of  that  day.  The 
name  is  indifferent ;  but  the  fact  of  the  scalding 
tears  I  most  distinctly  remember. 

I  was  always  fond  of  the  society  of  players,  and 
am  not  sure  that  an  impediment  in  my  speech 
(which  certainly  kept  me  out  of  the  pulpit),  even 
more  than  certain  personal  disqualifications,  which 
are  often  got  over  in  that  profession,  did  not  pre- 
vent me  at  one  time  of  life  from  adopting  it.  I 
have  had  the  honour  (I  must  ever  call  it)  once  to 
have  been  admitted  to  the  tea-table  of  Miss  Kelly. 
I  have  played  at  serious  whist  with  Mr.  Liston.  I 
have  chattered  with  ever  good-humoured  Mrs. 
Charles  Kemble.  I  have  conversed  as  friend  to 
friend  with  her  accomplished  husband.  I  have 
been  indulged  with  a  classical  conference  with 
Macready ;  and  with  a  sight  of  the  Player  picture- 


BARBARA   S .  91 

gallery,  at  Mr.  Mathews's,  when  the  kind  owner, 
to  remunerate  me  for  my  love  of  the  old  actors 
(whom  he  loves  so  much),  went  over  it  with  me, 
supplying  to  his  capital  collection,  what  alone  the 
artist  could  not  give  them— voice  ;  and  their  living 
motion.  Old  tones,  half-faded,  of  Dodd,  and 
Parsons,  and  Baddeley,  have  lived  again  for  me  at 
his  bidding.     Only  Edwin  he  could  not  restore  to 

me.     I  have  supped  with ;  but  I  am  growing 

a  coxcomb. 

As  I  was  about  to  say — at  the  desk  of  the  then 
treasurer  of  the  old  Bath  Theatre — not  Diamond's 
— presented  herself  the  little  Barbara  S . 

The  parents  of  Barbara  had  been  in  reputable 
circumstances.  The  father  had  practised,  I  believe, 
as  an  apothecary  in  the  town.  But  his  practice, 
from  causes  which  I  feel  my  own  infirmity  too  sen- 
sibly that  way  to  arraign — or  perhaps  from  that 
pure  infelicity  which  accompanies  some  people  in 
their  wall-:  through  life,  and  which  it  is  impossible 
to  lay  at  the  doorof  imprudence— was  now  reduced 
to  nothing.  They  were,  in  fact,  in  the  very  teeth 
of  starvation,  when  the  manager,  who  knew  and 
respected  them  in  better  days,  took  the  little  Bar- 
bara into  his  company. 

At  the  period  I  commenced  with,  her  slender 
earnings  were  the  sole  support  of  the  family,  in- 
cluding two  younger  sisters.  I  must  throw  a  veil 
over  some  mortifying  circumstances.  Enough  to 
say,  that  her  Saturday's  pittance  was  the  only 
chance  of  a  Sunday^s  (generally  their  only)  meal  of 
meat. 

One  thing  I  will  only  mention,  that  in  some 
child's  part,  where  in  her  theatrical  character  she 
was  to  sup  off  a  roast  fowl  (O  joy  to  Barbara !) 
some  comic  actor,  who  was  for  the  night  caterer 


5,2  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  EL  I  A. 

for  this  dainty — in  the  misguided  humour  of  his 
part,  threw  over  the  dish  such  a  quantity  of  salt  (O 
grief  and  pain  of  heart  to  Barbara  !)  that  when  she 
crammed  a  portion  of  it  into  her  mouth,  she  was 
obliged  sputteringly  to  reject  it ;  and  what  with 
shame  of  her  ill-acted  part,  and  pain  of  real  ap- 
petite at  missing  such  a  dainty,  her  little  heart 
sobbed  almost  to  breaking,  till  a  flood  of  tears, 
which  tiie  well-fed  spectators  were  totally  unable 
to  comprehend,  mercifully  relieved  her. 

This  was  the  little  starved,  meritorious  maid, 
who  stood  before  old  Ravenscroft,  the  treasurer, 
for  her  Saturday's  payment. 

Ravenscroft  was  a  man,  I  have  heard  many  old 
theatrical  people  besides  herself  say,  of  all  men 
least  calculated  for  a  treasurer.  He  had  no  head 
for  accounts,  paid  away  ai  random,  kept  scarce 
any  books,  and  summing  up  at  the  week's  end,  if 
he  found  himself  a  pound  or  so  deficient,  blest  him- 
self that  it  was  no  worse. 

Now  Barbara's  weekly  stipend  was  a  bare  half- 
guinea. — By  mistake  he  popped  into  her  hand — a 
whole  one. 

Barbara  tripped  away. 

She  was  entirely  unconscious  at  first  of  the  mis- 
take :  God  knows,  Ravenscroft  would  never  have 
discovered  it. 

But  when  she  had  got  down  to  the  first  of  those 
uncouth  landing-places,  she  became  sensible  of  an 
unusual  weight  of  metal  pressing  in  her  little  hand. 

Now  mark  the  dilemma. 

She  was  by  nature  a  good  child.  From  her 
parents  and  those  about  her,  she  had  imbibed  no 
contrary  influence.  But  then  they  had  taught  her 
nothing.  Poor  men's  smoky  cabins  are  not  always 
porticoes  of  moral  philosophy.     This  little  maid 


BARBARA   S .  93 

had  no  instinct  to  evil,  but  then  she  might  be  said 
to  have  no  fixed  principle.  She  had  heard  honesty 
commended,  but  never  dreamed  of  its  application 
to  herself.  She  thought  of  it  as  something  which 
concerned  grown-up  people,  men  and  women.  She 
had  never  known  temptation,  or  thought  of  pre- 
paring resistance  against  it. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  go  back  to  the  old  trea 
surer,  and  explain  to  him  his  blunder.  He  was 
already  so  confused  with  age,  besides  a  natural 
want  of  punctuality,  that  she  would  have  had  some 
difficulty  in  making  him  understand  it.  She  saw 
that  in  an  instant.  And  then  it  was  such  a  bit  of 
money  !  and  then  the  image  of  a  larger  allowance 
of  butcher's  meat  on  their  table  the  next  day  came 
across  her,  till  her  little  eyes  glistened  and  her 
mouth  moistened.  But  then  Mr.  Ravenscroft  ha<l 
always  been  so  good-natured,  had  stood  her  friend 
behind  the  scenes,  and  even  recommended  her  pro- 
motion to  some  of  her  little  parts.  But  again  the 
old  man  was  reputed  to  be  worth  a  world  of  money. 
He  was  supposed  to  have  fifty  pounds  a-year  clear 
of  the  theatre.  And  then  came  staring  upon  her  the 
figures  of  her  little  stockingless  and  shoeless  sisters. 
And  when  she  looked  at  her  own  neat  white  cotton 
stockings,  which  her  situation  at  the  theatre  had 
made  it  indispensable  for  her  mother  to  provide 
for  her,  with  hard  straining  and  pinching  from  the 
family  stock,  and  thought  how  glad  she  should  be 
to  cover  their  poor  feet  with  the  same — and  how 
then  they  could  accompany  her  to  rehearsals,  which 
they  had  hitherto  been  precluded  from  doing,  by 
reason  of  their  unfashionable  attire, — in  these 
thoughts  she  reached  the  second  landing-place — 
the  second,  I  mean,  from  the  top — for  there  was 
still  another  left  to  traverse. 


94  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

Now  virtue  support  Barbara  ! 

And  that  never-failing  friend  did  step  in — for  at 
that  moment  a  strength  not  her  own,  I  have  heard 
her  say,  was  revealed  to  her — a  reason  above  rea- 
soning— and  without  her  own  agency,  as  it  seemed 
(for  she  never  felt  her  feet  to  move),  she  found 
herself  transported  back  to  the  individual  desk  she 
had  just  quitted,  and  her  hand  in  the  old  hand  of 
Ravenscroft,  who  in  silence  took  back  the  refunded 
treasure,  and  who  had  been  sitting  (good  man)  in- 
sensible to  the  lapse  of  minutes,  which  to  her  were 
anxious  ages,  and  from  that  moment  a  deep  peace 
fell  upon  her  heart,  and  she  knew  the  quality  of 
honesty. 

A  year  or  two's  unrepining  application  to  her 
profession  brightened  up  the  feet  and  the  prospects 
of  her  little  sisters,  set  the  whole  family  upon  their 
legs  again,  and  released  her  from  the  difficulty  of 
discussing  moral  dogmas  upon  a  landing-place. 

I  have  heard  her  say  that  it  was  a  surprise,  not 
much  short  of  mortification  to  her,  to  see  the  coolness 
with  which  the  old  man  pocketed  the  difference, 
which  had  caused  her  such  mortal  throes. 

This  anecdote  of  herself  I  had  in  the  year  1800, 
from  the  mouth  of  the  late  Mrs.  Crawford,"  then 
sixty-seven  years  of  age  (she  died  soon  after)  ;  and 
to  her  struggles  upon  this  childish  occasion  I  have 
sometimes  ventured  to  think  her  indebted  for  that 
power  of  rending  the  heart  in  the  representation  of 
conflicting  emotions,  for  which  in  after  years  she 
was  considered  as  little  inferior  (if  at  all  so  in  the 
part  of  Lady  Randolph)  even  to  Mrs.  Siddons. 

'  The  maiden  name  of  this  lady  was  Street,  which  she 
changed,  by  successive  marriages,  for  those  of  Dancer, 
Barry,  and  Crawford.  She  was  Mrs.  Crawford,  a  third 
time  a  widow,  when  I  knew  htr. 


THE   TOMBS    IN   THE   ABBEY. 


A   LETTER   TO    R- 


ESQ. 


HOUGH  in  some  points  of  doctrine, 
and  perhaps  of  discipline,  I  am  diffident 
of  lending  a  perfect  assent  to  that  church 
which  you  have  so  worthily  Iiist07'ified, 
yet  may  the  ill  time  never  come  to  me,  when  with 
a  chilled  heart  or  a  portion  of  irreverent  senti- 
ment, I  shall  enter  her  beautiful  and  time-hal- 
lowed Edifices.  Judge,  then,  of  my  mortification 
when,  after  attending  the  choral  anthems  of  last 
Wednesday  at  Westminster,  and  being  desirous 
of  renewing  my  acquaintance,  after  lapsed  years, 
with  the  tombs  and  antiquities  there,  I  found  my- 
self excluded  ;  turned  out,  like  a  dog,  or  some 
profane  person,  into  the  common  street,  with  feel- 
ings not  very  congenial  to  the  place,  or  to  the 
solemn  service  which  I  had  been  listening  to.  It 
was  a  jar  after  that  music. 

You  had  your  education  at  Westminster  ;  and 
doubtless  among  those  dim  aisles  and  cloisters,  you 
must  have  gathered  much  of  that  devotional  feeling 
in  those  young  years,  on  which  your  purest  mind 
feeds  still — and  may  it  feed  !  The  antiquarian 
spirit,  strong  in  you,  and  gracefully  blending  ever 
with  the  religious,  may  have  been  sown  in  you 


§6  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

among  those  wrecks  of  splendid  mortality.  You 
owe  it  to  the  place  of  your  education  ;  you  owe  it 
to  your  learned  fondness  for  the  architecture  of 
your  ancestors  ;  you  owe  it  to  the  venerableness  of 
your  ecclesiastical  establishment,  which  is  daily 
lessened  and  called  in  question  through  these  prac- 
tices— to  speak  aloud  your  sense  of  them  ;  never  to 
desist  raising  your  voice  against  them,  till  they  be 
totally  done  away  with  and  abolished  ;  till  the 
doors  of  Westminster  Abbey  be  no  longer  closed 
against  the  decent,  though  low-in-purse,  enthusiast, 
or  blameless  devotee,  who  must  commit  an  injury 
against  his  family  economy,  if  he  would  be  indulged 
with  a  bare  admission  within  its  walls.  You  owe 
it  to  the  decencies  which  you  wish  to  see  main- 
tained in  its  impressive  services,  that  our  Cathedral 
be  no  longer  an  object  of  inspection  to  the  poor  at 
those  times  only,  in  which  they  must  rob  from  their 
attendance  on  the  worship  every  minute  which  they 
can  bestow  upon  the  fabric.  In  vain  the  public 
prints  have  taken  up  this  subject, — in  vain  such 
poor,  nameless  writers  as  myself  express  their  in- 
dignation. A  word  from  you,  sir, — a  hint  in  your 
Journal — would  be  sufficient  to  fling  open  the 
doors  of  the  Beautiful  Temple  again,  as  we  can  re- 
member them  when  we  were  boys.  At  that  time 
of  life,  what  would  the  imaginative  faculty  (such  as 
it  is)  in  both  of  us,  have  sutfered,  if  the  entrance  to 
so  much  reflection  had  been  obstructed  by  the  de- 
mand of  so  much  silver  ! — If  we  had  scraped  it  up 
to  gain  an  occasional  admission  (as  we  certainly 
should  have  done),  would  the  sight  of  those  old 
tombs  have  been  as  impressive  to  us  (while  w'e 
have  been  weighing  anxiously  prudence  against 
sentiment)  as  when  the  gates  stood  open  as  those 
of  the  adjacent  Park ;  when  we  could  walk  in  at 


THE   TOMBS  IN  THE  ABBEY.  97 

any  time,  as  the  mood  brought  us,  for  a  shorter  or 
longer  time,  as  that  lasted  ?  Is  the  being  shown 
over  a  place  the  same  as  silently  for  ourselves  de- 
tecting the  genius  of  it  ?  In  no  part  of  our  beloved 
Abbey  now  can  a  person  find  entrance  (out-of  ser- 
vice-time) under  the  sum  of  two  shillings.  The 
rich  and  the  great  will  smile  at  the  anti-climax, 
presumed  to  lie  in  these  two  short  words.  But  you 
can  tell  them,  sir,  how  much  quiet  worth,  how 
much  capacity  for  enlarged  feeling,  how  much 
taste  and  genius,  may  coexist,  especially  in  youth, 
with  a  purse  incompetent  to  this  demand.  A  re- 
spected friend  of  ours,  during  his  late  visit  to  the 
metropolis,  presented  himself  for  admission  to  St. 
Paul's.  At  the  same  time  a  decently-clothed  man, 
with  as  decent  a  wife  and  child,  were  bargaining 
for  the  same  indulgence.  The  price  was  only  two- 
pence each  person.  The  poor  but  decent  man 
hesitated,  desirous  to  go  in  ;  but  there  were  three 
of  them,  and  he  turned  away  reluctantly.  Perhaps 
he  wished  to  have  seen  the  tomb  of  Nelson.  Per- 
haps the  Interior  of  the  Cathedral  was  his  object. 
But  in  the  state  of  his  finances,  even  sixpence  might 
reasonably  seem  too  much.  Tell  the  Aristocracy 
of  the  country  (no  man  can  do  it  more  impres- 
sively); instruct  them  of  what  value  these  insignifi- 
cant pieces  of  money,  these  minims  to  their  sight, 
may  be  to  their  humbler  brethren.  Shame  these 
Sellers  out  of  the  Temple.  Stifle  not  the  sugges- 
tions of  your  better  nature  with  the  pretext,  that  au 
indiscriminate  admission  would  expose  the  Tombs 
to  violation.  Remember  your  boy-days.  Did  you 
ever  see,  or  hear,  of  a  mob  in  the  Abbey,  while  it 
was  free  to  all  ?  Do  the  rabble  come  there,  or 
trouble  their  heads  about  such  speculations  ?  It  is 
all  that  you  can  do  to  drive  them  into  your 
II.  H 


oS  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

churches  ;  they  do  not  voluntarily  offer  themselves. 
They  have,  alas  !  no  passion  for  antiquities ;  for 
tomb  of  king  or  prelate,  sage  or  poet.  If  they 
had,  they  would  be  no  longer  the  rabble. 

For  forty  years  that  I  have  known  the  Fabric,  the 
only  well-attested  charge  of  violation  adduced,  has 
been — a  ridiculous  dismemberment  committed  upon 
the  effigy  of  that  amiable  spy.  Major  Andre.  And 
is  it  for  this — the  wanton  mischief  of  some  school- 
boy, fired  perhaps  with  raw  notions  of  Transat- 
lantic Freedom — or  the  remote  possibility  of  such 
a  mischief  occurring  again,  so  easily  to  be  prevented 
by  stationing  a  constable  within  the  walls,  if  the 
vergers  are  incompetent  to  the  duty — is  it  upon 
such  wretched  pretences  that  the  people  of  England 
are  made  to  pay  a  new  Peter's  Pence,  so  long 
abrogated  ;  or  must  content  themselves  with  con- 
templating the  ragged  Exterior  of  their  Cathedral? 
The  mischief  was  done  about  the  time  that  you 
were  a  scholar  there.  Do  you  know  anything 
about  the  unfortunate  relic  ? — 


AMICUS    REDIVIVUS. 


Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 

DO  not  know  when  I  have  experienced 
a  stranger  sensation  than  on  seeing  my 
old  friend,  G.  D.,  wlio  had  been  paying 
me  a  morning  visit,  a  few  Sundays  back, 
at  my  cottage  at  IsHngton,  upon  taking  leave,  in- 
stead of  turning  down  the  right-hand  path  by 
which  he  had  entered— with  staff  in  hand,  and 
at  noonday,  deliberately  march  right  forward  into 
the  midst  of  the  stream  that  runs  by  us,  and  totally 
disappear. 

A  spectacle  like  this  at  dusk  would  have  been 
appalling  enough  ;  but  in  the  broad,  open  daylight, 
to  witness  such  an  imreserved  motion  towards  self- 
destruction  in  a  valued  friend,  took  from  me  all 
power  of  speculation. 

How  I  found  my  feet  I  know  not.  Conscious- 
ness was  quite  gone.  Some  spirit,  not  my  own, 
whirled  me  to  the  spot.  I  remember  nothing  but 
the  silvery  apparition  of  a  good  white  head  emerg- 
ing ;  nigh  which  a  staff  (the  hand  unseen  that 
wielded  it)  pointed  upwards,  as  feeling  for  the 
skies.     In  a  moment  (if  time  was  in  that  time)  he 


loo  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A 

was  on  my  shoulders,  and  I — freighted  with  a 
load  more  precious  than  his  who  bore  Anchises. 

And  here  I  cannot  but  do  justice  to  the  officious 
zeal  of  sundry  passers-by,  who,  albeit  arriving  a 
little  too  late  to  participate  in  the  honours  of  the 
rescue,  in  philanthropic  shoals  came  thronging  to 
communicate  their  advice  as  to  the  recovery  ;  pre- 
scribing variously  the  application,  or  non-applica- 
tion, of  salt,  &c.,  to  the  person  of  the  patient.  Life, 
meantime,  was  ebbing  fast  away,  amidst  the  strife 
of  conflicting  judgments,  when  one,  more  sagacious 
than  the  rest,  by  a  bright  thought,  proposed  send- 
ing for  the  Doctor.  Trite  as  the  counsel  was,  and 
impossible,  as  one  should  think,  to  be  missed  on, 
— shall  I  confess  ? — in  this  emergency  it  was  to  me 
as  if  an  Angel  had  spoken.  Great  previous  exer- 
tions— and  mine  had  not  been  inconsiderable — are 
commonly  followed  by  a  debility  of  purpose.  This 
was  a  moment  of  irresolution. 

MONOCULUS — for  so,  in  default  of  catching  his 
true  name,  I  choose  to  designate  the  medical  gen- 
tleman who  now  appeared — is  a  grave,  middle-aged 
person,  who,  without  having  studied  at  the  college, 
or  truckled  to  the  pedantry  of  a  diploma,  hath  em- 
ployed a  great  portion  of  his  valuable  time  in  ex- 
perimental processes  upon  the  bodies  of  unfortunate 
fellow-creaturqs,  in  whom  the  vital  spark,  to  mere 
vulgar  thinking,  would  seem  extinct  and  lost  for 
ever.  He  omitteth  no  occasion  of  obtruding  his 
services,  from  a  case  of  common  surfeit  suffocation 
to  the  ignobler  obstructions,  sometimes  induced  by 
a  too  wilful  application  of  the  plant  cannabis  out- 
wardly. But  though  he  declineth  not  altogether 
these  drier  extinctions,  his  occupation  tendeth,  for 
the  most  part,  to  water-practice ;  for  the  conve- 
nience  of  which,   he  hath  judiciously  fixed   his 


AMICUS  REDIVIVUS.  loi 

quarters  near  the  grand  repository  of  the  stream 
mentioned,  where  day  and  night,  from  his  httle 
watch-tower,  at  the  Middleton's  Head,  he  listenerti 
to  detect  the  wrecks  of  drowned  mortality— partly, 
as  he  saith,  to  be  upon  the  spot — and  partly,  be- 
cause the  liquids  which  he  useth  to  prescribe  to 
himself  and  his  patients,  on  these  distressing  occa- 
sions, are  ordinarily  more  conveniently  to  be  found 
at  these  common  hostelries  than  in  the  shops  and 
phials  of  the  apothecaries.  His  ear  hath  arrived 
to  such  finesse  by  practice,  that  it  is  reported  he 
can  distinguish  a  plunge,  at  half  a  furlong  distance; 
and  can  tell  if  it  be  casual  or  deliberate.  He 
weareth  a  medal,  suspended  over  a  suit,  originally 
of  a  sad  brown,  but  which,  by  time  and  frequency 
of  nightly  divings,  has  been  dinged  into  a  true  pro- 
fessional sable.  He  passeth  by  the  name  of  Doc- 
tor, and  is  remarkable  for  wanting  his  left  eye. 
His  remedy — after  a  sufficient  application  of  warm 
blankets,  friction,  &c.,  is  a  simple  tumbler,  or 
more,  of  the  purest  Cognac,  with  water,  made  as 
hot  as  the  convalescent  can  bear  it.  Where  he 
findeth,  as  in  the  case  of  my  friend,  a  squeamish 
subject,  he  condescendeth  to  be  the  taster ;  and 
showeth,  by  his  own  example,  the  innocuous  nature 
of  the  prescription.  Nothing  can  be  more  kind  or 
encouraging  than  this  procedure.  It  addeth  con- 
fidence to  the  patient,  to  see  his  medical  adviser 
go  hand  in  hand  with  himself  in  the  remedy. 
When  the  doctor  swalloweth  his  own  draught, 
what  peevish  invalid  can  refuse  to  pledge  him  in 
the  potion  ?  In  fine,  Monoculus  is  a  humane, 
sensible  man,  who,  for  a  slender  pittance,  scarce 
enough  to  sustain  life,  is  content  to  wear  it  out  in 
the  endeavour  to  save  the  lives  of  others — his  pre- 
tensions 50  moderate,  that  with  difficulty  I  could 


I02  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

press  a  crown  upon  him,  for  the  price  of  restoring 
the  existence  of  such  an  invaluable  creature  to  so- 
ciety as  G.  D. 

It  was  pleasant  to  observe  the  effect  of  the  sub- 
siding alarm  upon  the  nerves  of  the  dear  absentee. 
It  seemed  to  have  given  a  shake  to  memory,  calling 
up  notice  after  notice,  of  all  the  providential  deliver- 
ances he  had  experienced  in  the  course  of  his  long 
and  innocent  life.  Sitting  up  on  my  couch, — my 
couch  which,  naked  and  void  of  furniture  hitherto, 
for  the  salutary  repose  which  it  administered,  shall 
be  honoured  with  costly  valance,  at  some  price, 
and  henceforth  be  a  state-bed  at  Colebrook, — he 
discoursed  of  marvellous  escapes — by  carelessness 
of  nurses — by  pails  of  gelid,  and  kettles  of  the 
boiling  element,  in  infancy — by  orchard  pranks, 
and  snapping  twigs,  in  schoolboy  frolics — by  de- 
scent of  tiles  at  Trumpington,  and  of  heavier  tomes 
at  Pembroke — by  studious  watchings,  inducing 
frightful  vigilance — by  want,  and  the  fear  of  want, 
and  all  the  sore  throbbings  of  the  learned  head. — 
Anon,  he  would  bXirst  out  into  little  fragments  of 
chanting — of  songs  long  ago — ends  of  deliverance 
hymns,  not  remembered  before  since  childhood,  but 
coming  up  now,  when  his  heart  was  made  tender 
as  a  child's — for  the  tremor  cordis,  in  the  retrospect 
of  a  recent  deliverance,  as  in  a  case  of  impending 
danger,  acting  upon  an  innocent  heart,  will  pro- 
duce a  self-tenderness,  which  we  should  do  ill  to 
christen  cowardice  ;  and  Shakspeare,  in  the  latter 
crisis,  has  made  his  good  Sir  Hugh  to  remember 
the  sitting  by  Babylon,  and  to  mutter  of  shallow 
rivers. 

Waters  of  Sir  Hugh  Middleton — what  a  spark 
you  were  like  to  have  extinguished  forever!  Your 
salubrious  streams  to  this  City,  for  now  near  two 


AMICUS  REDIVIVUS.  103 

centuries,  would  hardly  have  atoned  for  what  you 
were  in  a  moment  washing  away.  Mockery  of  a 
river — liquid  artifice — wretched  conduit !  hence- 
forth rank  with  canals  and  sluggish  aqueducts. 
Was  it  for  this  that,  smit  in  boyhood  with  the  ex- 
plorations of  that  Abyssinian  traveller,  I  paced  the 
vales  of  Amwell  to  explore  your  tributary  springs, 
to  trace  your  salutary  waters  sparkling  through 
green  Hertfordshire,  and  cultured  Enfield  parks  ? 
— Ye  have  no  swans — no  Naiads— no  river  God — 
or  did  the  benevolent  hoary  aspect  of  my  friend 
tempt  ye  to  suck  him  in,  that  ye  also  might  have 
the  tutelaiy  genius  of  your  waters  ? 

Had  he  been  drowned  in  Cam,  there  would 
have  been  some  consonancy  in  it ;  but  what  wil- 
lows had  ye  to  wave  and  rustle  over  his  moist 
sepulture  ? — or,  having  no  na7ne,  besides  that  un- 
meaning assumption  of  eternal  7iovity,  did  ye  think 
to  get  one  by  the  noble  prize,  and  henceforth  to  be 
termed  the  Stream  Dyerian  ? 

And  could  such  spacious  virtue  find  a' grave 
Beneath  the  imposthumed  bubble  of  a  wave  ? 

I  protest,  George,  you  shall  not  venture  out 
again— no,  not  by  daylight — without  a  sufficient 
pair  of  spectacles — in  your  musing  moods  es- 
pecially. Your  absence  of  mind  we  have  borne, 
till  your  presence  of  body  came  to  be  called  in 
question  by  it.  You  shall  not  go  wandering  into 
Euripus  with  Aristotle,  if  we  can  help  it.  Fie, 
man,  to  turn  dipper  at  your  years,  after  your  many 
tracts  in  favour  of  sprinkling  only  ! 

I  have  nothing  but  water  in  my  head  o'nights 
since  this  frightful  accident.  Sometimes  I  am  with 
Clarence  in  his  dream.  At  others,  I  behold 
Christian  beginning  to  sink,  and  crying  out  to  his 


I04  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

good  brother  Hopeful  (that  is,  to  me),  "  1  sink  in 
deep  waters  ;  the  billows  go  over  my  head,  all  the 
waves  go  over  me.  Selah."  Then  I  have  before 
me  Palinurus,  just  letting  go  the  steerage.  I  cry 
out  too  late  to  save.  Next  follow — a  mouinful 
procession — suicidal  faces,  saved  against  their  will 
from  drowning  ;  dolefully  trailing  a  length  of  re- 
luctant gratefulness,  with  ropy  weeds  pendent  from 
locks  of  watchet  hue — constrained  Lazari — Pluto's 
nalt-subjects — stolen  fees  from  the  grave — bilking 
Charon  of  his  fare.  At  their  head  Arion — or  is  i't 
G.  D.? — in  his  singing  garments  marcheth  singly, 
with  harp  in  hand,  and  votive  garland,  which  Ma- 
chaon  (or  Dr.  Hawes)  snatcheth  straight,  intend- 
ing to  suspend  it  to  the  stern  God  of  Sea.  Then 
follow  dismal  streams  of  Lethe,  in  which  the  half- 
drenched  on  earth  are  constrained  to  drown  down- 
right, by  wharfs  where  Ophelia  twice  acts  her 
muddy  death. 

And,  doubtless,  there  is  some  notice  in  that  in- 
visible world  when  one  of  us  approacheth  (as  my 
friend  did  so  lately)  to  their  inexorable  precincts. 
When  a  soul  knocks  once,  twice,  at  Death's  door, 
the  sensation  aroused  within  the  palace  must  be 
considerable  ;  and  the  grim  Feature,  by  modern 
science  so  often  dispossessed  of  his  prey,  must  have 
learned  by  this  time  to  pity  Tantalus. 

A  pulse  assuredly  was  felt  along  the  line  of  the 
Elysian  shades,  when  the  near  arrival  of  G.  D. 
was  announced  by  no  equivocal  indications.  From 
their  seats  of  Asphodel  arose  the  gentler  and  the 
graver  ghosts — poet,  or  historian — of  Grecian  or  of 
Roman  lore — to  crown  with  mifading  chaplets  the 
half-finished  love-labours  of  their  unwearied  scho- 
liast. Him  Markland  expected — him  Tyrwhitt 
hoped  to  encounter — him  the  sweet  lyrist  of  Peter 


AMICUS  REDIVIVUS.  105 

House,   whom  he  had  barely  seen  upon   earth,' 

with  newest  airs  prepared    to    greet ;   and 

patron  of  the  gentle  Christ's  boy, — who  should 
have  been  his  patron  through  life — the  mild  Askew, 
with  longing  aspirations  leaned  foremost  from  his 
venerable  ^sculapian  chair,  to  welcome  into  thai 
happy  company  the  matured  virtues  of  the  man, 
whose  tender  scions  in  the  boy  he  himself  upon 
earth  had  so  prophetically  fed  and  watered. 

'  Graium  tantutn  vidit. 


SOME    SONNETS   OF   SIR   PHILIP 
SYDNEY. 

•  YDNEY'S  SONNETS— I  speak  of  the 
best  of  them — are  among  the  very  best 
of  their  sort.  They  fall  below  the  plain 
y  moral  dignity,  the  sanctity,  and  high 
yet  modest  spirit  of  self-approval,  of  Milton,  in 
his  compositions  of  a  similar  structure.  They  are 
in  truth  what  Milton,  censuring  the  Arcadia,  says 
of  that  work  (to  which  they  are  a  sort  of  after-tune 
or  application),  "vain  and  amatorious  "  enough, 
yet  the  things  in  their  kind  (as  he  confesses  to  be 
true  of  the  romance)  may  be  "  full  of  worth  and 
wit."  They  savour  of  the  Courtier,  it  must  be  al- 
lowed, and  not  of  the  Commonwealthsman.  But 
Milton  was  a  Courtier  when  he  wrote  the  Masque 
at  Ludlow  Castle,  and  still  more  a  Courtier  when 
he  composed  the  Arcades.  When  the  national 
struggle  was  to  begin,  he  becomingly  cast  these 
vanities  behind  him  ;  and  if  the  order  of  time  had 
thrown  Sir  Philip  upon  the  crisis  which  preceded 
the  revolution,  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should 
not  have  acted  the  same  part  in  that  emergency, 
which  has  glorified  the  name  of  a  later  Sydney. 
He  did  not  want  for  plainness  ot,  boldness  of  spirit. 
His  letter  on  the  French  match  may  testify  he 


SOME  SONNETS  OF  SIR  P.  SYDNEY.     107 

could  speak  his  mind  freely  to  Princes.     The  times 
did  not  call  him  to  the  scaffold. 

The  Sonnets  which  we  oftenest  call  to  mind  of 
Milton  were  the  compositions  of  his  maturest  years. 
Those  of  Sydney,  which  I  am  about  to  produce, 
were  written  in  the  very  heyday  of  his  blood.  They 
are  stuck  full  of  amorous  fancies — far-fetched  con- 
ceits, befitting  his  occupation  ;  for  True  Love 
thinks  no  labour  to  send  out  Thoughts  upon  the 
vast  and  more  than  Indian  voyages,  to  bring  home 
rich  pearls,  outlandish  wealth,  gums,  jewels,  spiceiy, 
to  sacrifice  in  self-depreciating  similitudes,  as  sha- 
dows of  true  amiabilities  in  the  Beloved.  We  must 
be  Lovers — or  at  least  the  cooling  touch  of  time, 
the  circuni  prcscordia  fngus,  must  not  have  so 
damped  our  faculties,  as  to  take  away  our  recol- 
lection that  we  were  once  so — before  we  can  duly 
appreciate  the  glorious  vanities  and  graceful  hyper- 
boles of  the  passion.  The  images  which  lie  before 
our  feet  (though  by  some  accounted  the  only  natural) 
are  least  natural  for  the  high  Sydnean  love  to  express 
its  fancies  by.  They  may  serve  for  the  loves  of 
Tibullus,  or  the  dear  Author  of  the  Schoolmistress  ; 
for  passions  that  creep  and  whine  in  Elegies  and 
Pastoral  Ballads.  I  am  sure  Milton  never  loved  at 
this  rate.  I  am  afraid  some  of  his  addresses  {ad 
Leonoram  I  mean)  have  rather  erred  on  the  farther 
side  ;  and  that  the  poet  came  not  much  short  of  a 
religious  indecorum,  when  he  could  thus  apostrophize 
a  singing-girl  : — 


Angelus  unicuique  suus  (sic  credite  gentes) 
Obtigit  Eethereis  ales  ab  ordinibus. 

Quid  mirum,  Leonora,  tibi  si  gloria  major, 
Nam  tua  praesentem  vox  sonat  ipsa  Deum 

Aiit  Deus,  aut  vacui  certe  mens  tertia  coeli 
Per  tua  secreto  guttura  seipit  agens  ; 


,o8  LAST  ESSAVS  OF  ELIA. 

Serpit  agens,  facilisque  docet  mortalia  corda 

Sensim  immortali  assuescere  posse  sono. 
Quod  si  cuncta  quidem  Deus  est,  per  cunctaque 

FUSUS, 

In  te  una  loquitur,  cetera  mutus  habet. 

This  is  loving  in  a  strange  fashion ;  and  it  re- 
quires some  candour  of  construction  (besides  the 
slight  darkening  of  a  dead  language)  to  cast  a  veil 
over  the  ugly  appearance  of  something  very  like 
blasphemy  in  the  last  two  verses.  I  think  the 
Lover  would  have  been  staggered  if  he  had  gone 
about  to  express  the  same  thought  in  English.  I 
am  sure  Sydney  has  no  flights  like  this.  His  ex- 
travaganzas do  not  strike  at  the  sky,  though  he  takes 
leave  to  adopt  the  pale  Dian  into  a  fellowship  w  ith 
his  mortal  passions : 

I. 
With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies 
How  silently  ;  and  with  how  wan  a  face  1 
What  !  may  it  be,  that  even  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  Archer  his  sharp  arrow  tries? 
Sure,  if  tnat  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case  ; 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks  ;  thy  languisht  grace 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me,  _ 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of  wit? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  ? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn,  whom  that  love  doth  possess? 
Do  they  call  virtue  xhae—wtgrate/uliiess  1 

The  last  line  of  this  poem  is  a  little  obscured  by 
transposition.  He  means,  Do  they  call  ungrateful- 
ness there  a  virtue  ? 

II. 
Come,  Sleep,  O  Sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe. 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release. 
The  mdifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low  ; 


SOME  SONNETS  OF  SIR  P.  SYDNEY,    lo) 

With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prea^e  ' 
Of  those  fierce  darts  despair  at  me  doth  throw  ; 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease  : 

1  will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  sweet  pillows,  sweetest  bed  ; 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind  to  light ; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me. 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's  image  see. 


The  curious  wits,  seeing  dull  pensiveness 
Bewray  itself  in  my  long-settled  eyes, 
Whence  those  same  fumes  of  melancholy  rise, 
With  idle  pains,  and  missing  aim,  do  guess. 
Some,  that  know  how  my  spring  I  did  address, 
Deem  tliat  my  Muse  some  fruit  of  knowledge  plies  : 
Others,  because  the  Prince  my  service  tries. 
Think,  that  I  think  state  errors  to  redress  ; 
But  harder  judges  judge,  ambition's  rage, 
Scourge  of  itself,  still  climbing  slippery  place. 
Holds  my  young  brain  captiv'd  in  golden  cage. 
O  fools,  or  over-wise  !  al;is,  the  race 
Of  all  my  thoughts  hath  neither  stop  nor  start, 
But  only  Stella's  eyes,  and  Stella's  heart. 


Because  I  oft  in  dark  abstracted  guise 
Seem  most  alone  in  greatest  company. 
With  dearth  of  words,  or  answers  quite  awry. 
To  them  that  would  make  speech  of  speech  arise, 
They  deem,  and  of  their  doom  the  rumour  flies, 
That  poison  foul  of  bubbling  Pride  doth  lie 
So  in  my  swell  ng  breast,  that  only  I 
Fawn  on  myself,  and  others  do  despise  ; 
Yet  Pride,  I  think,  doth  not  my  soul  possess. 
Which  looks  too  oft  in  his  unflattering  glass  ; 
But  one  worst  (axilt— A miiiian— I  confess, 
That  makes  me  oft  my  best  friends  overpass. 
Unseen,  unheard — while  Thought  to  highest  place 
Bends  all  his  powers,  even  unto  Stella's  giace. 


Press. 


LAST  ESSAVS  OF  ELI  A. 


Having  this  day,  my  horse,  my  hand,  my  lance, 
Guided  so  well  that  I  obtainedcthe  prize. 
Both  by  the  judgment  of  the  English  eyes, 
And  of  some  sent  fram  that  ST.ueet  enetny, — France 
Horsemen  my  skill  in  horsemanship  advance  ; 
Townsfolk  my  strength  ;  a  daintier  judge  applies  _ 
His  praise  to  sleight,  which  from  good  use  doth  rise  ; 
Some  lucky  wits  impute  it  but  to  chance  ; 
Others,  because  of  both  sides  I  do  take 
My  blood  from  them,  who  did  excel  in  this. 
Think  Nature  me  a  man  of  arms  did  make. 
How  far  they  shot  awry  !  the  true  cause  is, 
Stella  look'd  on,  and  from  her  heavenly  face 
Sent  forth  the  beams  which  made  so  fair  my  race. 


lu  martial  sports  I  had  my  cunning  tried. 

And  yet  to  break  more  staves  did  me  address, 

While  with  the  people's  shouts  (I  must  confess) 

Youth,  luck,  and  praise,  even  fiU'd  my  veins  with  pride 

When  Cupid  having  me  (his  slave)  descried 

In  Mars's  livery,  prancing  in  the  press, 

"  What  now,  Sir  Fool !  "  said  he  ;  "I  would  no  less  : 

Look  here,  I  say."     I  look'd,  and  Stella  spied, 

Who  hard  by  made  a  window  send  forth  light. 

My  heart  then  quaked,  then  dazzled  were  mine  eyes  ; 

One  hand  forgot  to  rule,  th'  other  to  fight ; 

Nor  trumpet's  sound  I  heard,  nor  friendly  cries. 

My  foe  came  on,  and  beat  the  air  for  me — 

Till  that  her  blush  made  me  my  shame  to  see. 

VII. 

No  more,  my  dear,  no  more  these  counsels  try ; 

0  give  my  passions  leave  to  run  their  race  ; 
Let  Fortune  lay  on  me  her  worst  disgrace  ; 
Let  folk  o'ercharged  with  brain  against  me  cry ; 
Let  clouds  bedim  my  face,  break  in  mine  eye  ; 
Let  me  no  steps,  but  of  lost  labour,  trace  ; 

Let  all  the  earth  with  scorn  recount  my  case- 
But  do  not  will  me  from  my  love  to  fly. 

1  do  not  envy  Aristotle's  wit. 

Nor  do  aspire  to  Cassar's  bleeding  fame  ; 

Nor  aught  do  care,  though  some  above  me  sit ; 

Nor  hope,  nor  wish,  another  course  to  frame. 


SOME  SONNETS  OF  SIR  P.  SYDNEY,     iii 

But  that  which  once  may  win  thy  cruel  heart : 
Thou  art  my  wit,  and  thou  my  virtue  art. 

VIII. 

Love  still  a  boy,  and  oft  a  wanton,  is, 
School'd  only  by  his  mother's  tender  eye  ; 
What  wonder,  then,  if  he  his  lesson  miss, 
When  for  so  soft  a  rod  dear  play  he  try  ? 
And  yet  my  Star,  because  a  sugar'd  kiss 
In  sport  I  suck'd,  while  she  asleep  did  lie. 
Doth  lour,  nay  chide,  nay  threat,  for  only  this. 
Sweet,  it  was  saucy  Love,  not  humble  L 
But  no  'scuse  serves  ;  she  makes  her  wrath  appear 
In  Beauty's  throne — see  now  who  dares  come  near 
Those  scarlet  judges,  threat'nijig  bloody  pain? 
O  heav'nly  Fool,  thy  most  kiss-worthy  face 
Anger  invests  with  such  a  lovely  grace. 
That  anger's  self  I  needs  must  kiss  again. 


I  never  drank  of  Aganippe  well. 

Nor  ever  did  in  shade  of  Tempe  sit, 

And  Muses  scorn  with  vulgar  brains  to  dwell; 

Poor  lay-man  I,  for  sacred  rights  unfit. 

Some  do  I  hear  of  Poet's  fury  tell. 

But  (God  wot)  wot  not  what  they  mean  by  it ; 

And  this  I  swear  by  blackest  brook  of  hell, 

I  am  no  pick-purse  of  another's  wit. 

How  falls  it  then,  that  with  so  smooth  an  ease 

My  thoughts  I  speak,  and  what  I  speak  doth  flow 

In  verse,  and  that  my  verse  best  wits  doth  please? 

Guess  me  the  cause — what  is  it  thus  ? — fye,  no  ! 

Or  so  ?— much  less.     How  tben  ?  sure  thus  it  is. 

My  lips  are  sweet,  inspir'd  with  Stella's  kiss. 


Of  all  the  kings  that  ever  here  did  reign, 
Edward,  named  Fourth,  as  first  in  praise  I  name. 
Not  for  his  fair  outside,  nor  well-lined  brain — 
Although  less  gifts  imp  feathers  oft  on  Fame. 
Nor  that  he  could,  young-wise,  wise-valiant,  frame 
His  sire's  revenge,  join'd  with  a  kingdom's  gain  ; 
And,  gain'd  by  Mars  could  yet  mad  Mars  so  tame 
That  Balance  weigh'd  what  Sword  did  late  obtain. 
Nor  that  he  made  the  Floure-de-luce  so  'fraid. 
Though  strongly  hedged,  of  bloody  Lions'  paws, 


112  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

That  witty  Lewis  to  him  a  tribute  paid. 
Nor  this,  nor  that,  nor  anv  such  small  cause — 
But  only,  for  this  worthy  knight  durst  prove 
To  lose  his  crown  rather  than  fail  his  love. 

XI. 

0  happy  Thames,  that  didst  my  Stella  bear, 

1  saw  thyself,  with  many  a  smiling  line 
Upon  thy  cheerful  face,  Joy's  livery  wear, 
While  those  fair  planets  on  thy  streams  did  shine 
The  boat  for  joy  could  not  to  dance  forbear. 
While  wanton  winds,  with  beauty  so  divine 
Ravish'd,  stay'd  not,  till  in  her  golden  hair 
They  did  themselves  (O  sweetest  prison)  twine. 
And  fain  those  ^ol's  youth  there  would  their  stay 
Have  made  ;  but,  forced  by  nature  still  to  fly. 
First  did  with  puffing  kiss  those  locks  display. 
She,  so  dishevell'd,  blush'd  ;  from  window  I 
With  sight  thereof  cried  out,  O  fair  disgrace, 

Let  Honour's  self  to  thee  grant  highest  place  ! 

XII. 

Highway,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be  ; 
And  that  my  Muse,  to  some  ears  not  unsweet, 
Tempers  her  words  to  trampling  horses'  feet. 
More  soft  than  to  a  chamber  melody  ; 
Now  blessed  You  bear  onward  blessed  Me 
To  Her,  where  I  my  heart  safe  left  shall  meet. 
My  Muse  and  I  must  you  of  duty  greet 
With  thanks  and  wishes,  wishing  thankfully. 
Be  you  still  fair,  honour'd  by  public  heed, 
By  no  encroachment  wrong'd,  nor  time  forgot ; 
Nor  blamed  for  blood,  nor  shamed  for  sinful  deed. 
And  that  you  know,  I  envy  you  no  lot 
Of  highest  wish,  I  wish  you  so  much  bliss. 
Hundreds  of  years  you  Stella's  feet  may  kiss. 

Of  the  foregoing,  the  first,  the  second,  and  the 
last  sonnet,  are  my  favourites.  But  the  general 
beauty  of  them  all  is,  that  they  are  so  perfectly 
characteristical.  The  spirit  of  "learning  and  of 
.chivalry," — of  which  union,  Spenser  has  entitled 
Sydney  to  have  been  the  "president," — shines 
through  them.     I  confess  I  can  see  nothing  of  the 


SOME  SONNETS  OF  S/E  P.  SYDNEY.    113 

"jejune  "  or  "frigid  "  in  them  ;  much  less  of  the 
"stiff"  and  "cumbrous" — which  I  have  son>'^- 
times  heard  objected  to  the  Arcadia.  The  verse 
runs  off  swiftly  and  gallantly.  It  might  have  been 
tuned  to  the  trumpet ;  or  tempered  (as  himself  ex- 
presses it)  to  "trampling  horses'  feet."  They  abound 
in  felicitous  phrases — 

O  heav'niy  Fool,  thy  most  kiss-worthy  face— 
Zth  Sonnet. 

Sweet  pillows,  sweetest  bed  ; 

A  chamber  deaf  to  noise,  and  blind  to  light ; 
A  rosy  garland,  and  a  weary  head. 

2nd  Sonjtet. 

That  sweet  enemy, — France — 

$ih  Sonnet. 

But  they  are  not  rich  in  words  only,  in  vague 
and  unlocalized  feelings — the  failing  too  much  of 
some  poetry  of  the  present  day — they  are  full, 
material,  and  circumstantiated.  Time  and  place 
appropriates  every  one  of  them.  It  is  not  a  fever 
of  passion  wasting  itself  upon  a  thin  diet  of  dainty 
words,  but  a  transcendent  passion  pervading  and 
illuminating  action,  pursuits,  studies,  feats  of  arms, 
the  opinions  of  contemporaries,  and  his  judgment 
of  them.  An  historical  thread  runs  through  them, 
which  almost  affixes  a  date  to  them  ;  marks  the 
when  and  where  they  were  written. 

I  have  dwelt  the  longer  upon  what  I  conceive 
the  merit  of  these  poems,  because  I  have  been  hurt 
by  the  wantonness  (I  wish  I  could  treat  it  by  a 
gentler  name)  with  which  W.  H.  takes  every  occa- 
sion of  insulting  the  memory  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney. 
But  the  decisions  of  the  Author  of  Table  Talk,  &c. 
(most  profound  and  subtle  where  they  are,  as  for 
the  most  part,  just)  are  more  safely  to  be  relied 
upon,  on  subjects  and  authors  he  has  a  partiality 

H.  I 


ti4  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

for,  than  on  such  as  he  has  conceived  an  accidental 
prejudice  against.  Milton  wrote  sonnets,  and  was 
a  king-hater  ',  and  it  was  congenial  perhaps  to  sacri- 
fice a  courtier  to  a  patriot.  But  I  was  unwilling  to 
lose  3.  fine  idea  from  my  mind.  The  noble  images, 
passions,  sentiments,  and  poetical  delicacies  of  cha- 
racter, scattered  all  over  the  Arcadia  (spite  of  some 
stiffness  and  encumberment),  justify  to  me  the 
character  which  his  contemporaries  have  left  us  of 
the  writer.  I  cannot  think  with  the  Critic,  that 
Sir  Philip  Sydney  was  that  opprobn'otis  thing -which. 
a  foolish  nobleman  in  his  insolent  hostility  chose  to 
term  him.  I  call  to  mind  the  epitaph  made  on  him, 
to  guide  me  to  juster  thoughts  of  him  ;  and  I  repose 
upon  the  beautiful  lines  m  the  "  Friend's  Passion 
for  his  Astrophel,"  printed  with  the  Elegies  of 
Spenser  and  others  : 

You  knew — who  knew  not  Astrophel  ? 

(I'hat  I  should  live  to  say  I  knew, 

And  have  not  in  possession  still  !) — 

Things  known  permit  me  to  renew — 
Of  him  you  know  his  merit  such, 
I  cannot  say — you  hear — too  much. 

Within  these  woods  of  Arcady 

He  chief  delight  and  pleasure  took  ; 

And  on  the  mountain  l^artheny. 

Upon  the  crystaJ  liquid  brook, 
The  Muses  met  him  every  day, 
That  taught  him  sing,  to  write,  and  say. 

When  he  descended  down  the  mount, 
His  personage  seemed  most  divine  : 
A  thousand  graces  one  might  count 
Upon  his  lovely  cheerful  eyne. 

To  hear  him  speak,  and  sweetly  smile, 

You  were  in  Paradise  the  while. 

A  sweet  attractive  kind  of  grace  ; 
A  full  assurance  given  by  looks; 
Continual  comfort  in  a  face. 
The  lineaments  of  Gospel  books  — 


SOME  SONNETS  OF  SIR  P.  SYDNEY.    115 

I  trow  that  count'nance  cannot  lye, 
Whose  thoughts  are  legible  in  the  eye. 

Above  all  others  this  is  he. 
Which  erst  approved  in  his  song, 
ITiat  love  and  honour  might  agree, 
And  that  pure  love  will  do  no  wrong. 

Sweet  saints,  it  is  no  sin  or  blame 

To  love  a  man  of  virtuous  name. 

Did  never  love  so  sweetly  breathe 

In  any  mortal  breast  before  ; 

Did  never  Muse  inspire  beneath 

A  Poet's  brain  with  finer  store  ! 

He  wrote  of  Love  with  high  conceit. 
And  Beauty  rear'd  above  her  height. 

Or  let  any  one  read  the  deeper  sorrows  (grief 
running  into  rage)  in  the  Poem, — the  last  in  the 
collection  accompanying  the  above, — which  from 
internal  testimony  I  believe  to  be  Lord  Brooke's — 
beginning  with  "Silence  aiigmenteth  grief,"  and 
then  seriously  ask  himself,  whether  the  subject  of 
such  absorbing  and  confounding  regrets  could  have 
been  t/iat  t hi  tig  v.'\i\c\i  Lord  Oxford  termed  him. 


NEWSPAPERS  THIRTY-FIVE  YEARS 
AGO. 

]AN  STUART  once  told  us,  that  he  did 
not  remember  that  he  ever  deliberately 
walked  into  the  Exhibition  at  Somerset 
House  in  his  life.  He  might  occasion- 
ally have  escorted  a  party  of  ladies  across  the  way 
that  were  going  in,  but  he  never  went  in  of  his 
own  head.  Yet  the  office  of  the  Morning  Post 
newspaper  stood  then  just  where  it  does  now — we 
are  carrying  you  back,  Reader,  some  thirty  years 
or  more — with  its  gilt-globe-topt  front  facing  that 
emporium  of  our  artists'  grand  Annual  Exposure. 
We  sometimes  wish  that  we  had  observed  the  same 
abstinence  with  Daniel. 

A  word  or  two  of  D.  S.  He  ever  appeared  to 
us  one  of  the  finest-tempered  of  Editors.  Perry,  ol 
the  Morning  Chronicle,  was  equally  pleasant,  with 
a  dash,  no  slight  one  either,  of  the  courtier.  S.  was 
frank,  plain,  and  English  all  over.  We  have 
worked  for  both  these  gentlemen. 

It  is  soothing  to  contemplate  the  head  of  the 
Ganges  ;  to  trace  the  first  little  bubblings  of  a 
mighty  river. 

With  holy  revel  ence  to  approach  the  rocks, 
Whence  glide  the  streams  renowned  in  ancient  song. 


NEIVSPAPERS.  117 

Fired  with  a  perusal  of  the  Abyssinian  Pilgiim's 
exploratory  ramblings  after  the  cradle  of  the  infant 
NiluSjWewell  remember  on  one  fine  summer  holyday 
(a  "  whole  day's  leave  "  we  called  it  at  Christ's  hos- 
pital) sallying  forth  at  rise  of  sun,  not  very  well 
provisioned  either  for  such  an  undertaking,  to  trace 
the  current  of  the  New  River— Middletonian  stream! 
— to  its  scaturient  source,  as  we  had  read,  in  meadows 
by  fair  Amwell.  Gallantly  did  we  commence  our 
solitary  quest — for  it  was  essential  to  the  dignity  of 
a  Discovery,  that  no  eye  of  schoolboy,  save  our 
own,  should  beam  on  the  detection.  By  flowery 
spots,  and  verdant  lanes  skirting  Hornsey,  Hope 
trained  us  on  in  many  a  baffling  turn  ;  endless, 
hopeless  meanders,  as  it  seemed ;  or  as  if  the 
jealous  waters  had  dodged  us,  reluctant  to  have  the 
humble  spot  of  their  nativity  revealed  ;  till  spent, 
and  nigh  famished,  before  set  of  the  same  sun,  we 
sate  down  somewhere  by  Bowes  Farm  near  Totten- 
ham, with  a  tithe  of  our  proposed  labours  only  yet 
accomplished  ;  sorely  convinced  in  spirit,  that  that 
Brucian  enterprise  was  as  yet  too  arduous  for  our 
young  shoulders. 

Not  more  refreshing  to  the  thirsty  curiosity  of 
the  traveller  is  the  tracing  of  some  mighty  waters 
up  to  their  shallow  fontlet,  than  it  is  to  a  pleased 
and  candid  reader  to  go  back  to  the  inexperienced 
essays,  the  first  callow  flights  in  authorship,  of  some 
established  name  in  literature  ;  from  the  Gnat  which 
preluded  to  the  ^neid,  to  the  Duck  which  Samuel 
Johnson  trod  on. 

In  those  days,  every  Morning  Paper,  as  an  es- 
sential retainer  to  its  establishment,  kept  an  author, 
who  was  bound  to  furnish  daily  a  quantum  of  witty 
paragraphs.  Sixpence  a  joke — and  it  was  thougli* 
pretty  high  too  —was  Dan  Stuart's  settled  remune- 


ii8  LAST  £SSAVS  OF  ELI  A. 

ration  in  these  cases.  The  chat  of  the  day— scan- 
dal,  but,  above  all,  d7-ess — furnished  the  material. 
The  length  of  no  paragraph  was  to  exceed  seven 
lines.  Shorter  they  might  be,  but  they  must  be 
poignant. 

A  fashion  of  flesh,  or  rather  /z«/C'-coloured  hose 
for  the  ladies,  "luckily  coming  up  at  the  juncture 
when  we  were  on  our  probation  for  the  place  of 
Chief  Jester  to  S.'s  Paper,  established  our  reputa- 
tion in  that  line.  We  were  pronounced  a  "capital 
hand."  O  the  conceits  which  we  varied  upon  red 
in  all  its  prismatic  differences  !  from  the  trite  and 
obvious  flower  of  Cytherea,  to  the  flaming  costume 
of  the  lady  that  has  her  sitting  upon  ■* '  many  waters. " 
Then  there  was  the  collateral  topic  of  ankles. 
What  an  occasion  to  a  truly  chaste  writer,  like 
ourself,  of  touching  that  nice  brink,  and  yet  never 
tumbling  over  it,  of  a  seemingly  ever  approximating 
something  "  not  quite  proper  ;"  while,  like  a  skil- 
ful posture-master,balancing  betwixt  decorums  and 
their  opposites,  he  keeps  the  line,  from  which  a 
hair's-breadth  deviation  is  destruction  ;  hovering  in 
the  confines  of  light  and  darkness,  or  where  "both 
seem  either  ;"  ahazy  uncertain  delicacy ;  Autolycus- 
like  in  the  Play,  still  putting  off  his  expectant 
auditory  with  "'Whoop,' do  me  no  harm,  good 
man  !"  But  above  all,  that  conceit  arrided  us  most 
at  that  time,  and  still  tickles  our  midriff  to  remem- 
ber, where,  allusively  to  the  flight  of  Astrsea — 
nlthiia  CcelestAm  terras  reliquit — we  pronounced — 
in  reference  to  the  stockings  still— that  MoDESTY, 

TAKING  HER  FINAL  LEAVE  OF  MORTALS,  HER 

LAST  Blush  was  visible  in  her  ascent  to  the 
Heavens  by  the  tract  of  the  glowing  in- 
step. This  might  be  called  the  crowning  conceit : 
and  was  esteemed  tolerable  writing  in  those  days. 


NEIVSPAPERS.  IJ9 

But  the  fashion  of  jokes,  with  all  other  things, 
passes  away  ;  as  did  the  transient  mode  which  had 
so  favoured  us.  The  ankles  of  our  fair  friends  in  a 
few  weeks  began  to  reassume  their  whiteness,  and 
left  us  scarce  a  leg  to  stand  upon.  Other  female 
whims  followed,  but  none,  methought,  so  pregnant, 
so  invitatory  of  shrewd  conceits,  and  more  than 
single  meanings. 

Somebody  has  said,  that  to  swallow  six  cross- 
buns  daily  consecutively  for  a  fortnight,  would  sur- 
feit the  stoutest  digestion.  But  to  have  to  furnish 
as  many  jokes  daily,  and  that  not  for  a  fortnight, 
but  for  a  long  twelvemonth,  as  we  were  constrained 
to  do,  was  a  little  harder  exaction.  "  Man  goeth 
forth  to  his  work  until  the  evening" — from  a  reason- 
able hour  in  the  morning,  we  presume  it  was  meant. 
Now,  as  our  main  occupation  took  us  up  from  eight 
till  five  every  day  in  the  City  ;  and  as  our  evening 
hours,  at  that  time  of  life,  had  generally  to  do  with 
anything  rather  than  business,  it  follows,  that  the 
only  time  we  could  spare  for  this  manufactory  of 
jokes — our  supplementary  livelihood,  that  supplied 
us  in  every  want  beyond  mere  bread  and  cheese — 
was  exactly  that  part  of  the  day  which  (as  we  have 
heard  of  No  Man's  Land)  may  be  fitly  denominated 
No  Man's  Time ;  that  is,  no  time  in  which  a  man 
ought  to  be  up,  and  awake,  in.  To  speak  more 
plainly,  it  is  that  time  of  an  hour,  or  an  hour  and  a 
lialf's  duration,  in  which  a  man,  whose  occasions 
call  him  up  so  preposterously,  has  to  wait  for  his 
breakfast. 

O  those  head-aches  at  dawn  of  day,  when  at  five, 
or  half-past  five  in  summer,  and  not  much  later  in 
the  dark  seasons,  we  were  compelled  to  rise,  having 
been  perhaps  not  above  four  hours  in  bed — (for  we 
were  no  go-to-beds  with  the  lamb,  though  we  an- 


I20  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

ticipated  the  lark  ofttimes  in  her  rising — we  like  a 
parting  cup  at  midnight,  as  all  young  men  did  be- 
fore these  effeminate  times,  and  to  have  our  friends 
about  us— we  were  not  constellated  under  Aquarius 
that  watery  sign,  and  therefore  incapable  of  Bac- 
chus, cold,  washy,  bloodless — we  were  none  of  your 
Basilian  water-sponges,  nor  had  taken  our  degrees 
at  Mount  Ague — we  were  right  toping  Capulets, 
jolly  companions,  we  and  they) — but  to  have  to  get 
up,  as  we  said  before,  curtailed  of  half  our  fair 
sleep,  fasting,  with  only  a  dim  vista  of  refreshing 
bohea  in  the  distance — to  be  necessitated  to  rouse 
ourselves  at  the  detestable  rap  of  an  old  hag  of  a 
domestic,  who  seemed  to  take  a  diabolical  pleasure 
in  her  announcement,  that  it  was  "  time  to  rise  ;" 
and  whose  chappy  knuckles  we  have  often  yearned 
to  amputate,  and  string  them  up  at  our  chamber 
door,  to  be  a  terror  to  all  such  unseasonable  rest- 
breakers  in  future 

"  Facil "  and  sweet,  as  Virgil  sings,  had  been  the 
"descending"  of  the  over-night,  balmy  the  first 
sinking  of  the  heavy  head  upon  the  pillow  ;  but  to 
get  up,  as  he  goes  on  to  say, 

— revocare  gradus,  superasque  evadere  ad  auras — 

and  to  get  up,  moreover,  to  make  jokes  with  malice 
prepended  —  there  was  the  "labour,"  there  the 
"work." 

No  Egyptian  taskmaster  ever  devised  a  slavery 
like  to  that,  our  slavery.  No  fractious  operants 
ever  turned  out  for  half  the  tyranny  which  this  ne- 
cessity exercised  upon  us.  Half  a  dozen  jests  in  a 
day,  (bating  Sundays  too, )  why,  it  seems  nothing  ! 
We  make  twice  the  number  every  day  in  our  lives 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  claim  no  Sabbatical  ex- 
emptions.   But  then  they  come  into  our  head.  But 


NEIVSPAPERS.  121 

when  the  head  has  to  go  out  to  them—  when  the 
mountain  must  go  to  Mahomet — 

Reader,  try  it  for  once,  only  for  a  short  twelve- 
month. 

It  was  not  eveiy  week  that  a  fashion  of  pink 
stockings  came  up  ;  but  mostly,  instead  of  it,  some 
rugged  untractable  subject;  some  topic  impossible 
to  be  contorted  into  the  risible  ;  some  feature,  upon 
which  no  smile  could  play  ;  some  flint,  from  which 
no  process  of  ingenuity  could  procure  a  scintillation. 
There  they  lay  ;  there  your  appointed  tale  of  brick- 
making  was  set  before  you,  which  you  must  finish, 
with  or  without  straw,  as  it  happened.  The  craving 
Dragon — the  Public — like  him  in  Bel's  Temple — 
must  be  fed,  it  expected  its  daily  rations  ;  and 
Daniel,  and  ourselves,  to  do  us  justice,  did  the  best 
we  could  on  this  side  bursting  him. 

While  we  were  wringing  out  coy  sprightliness 
for  the  Post,  and  writhing  under  the  toil  of  what  is 
called  "easy  writing,"  Bob  Allen,  our  quondam 
schoolfellow,  was  tapping  his  impracticable  brains 
in  a  like  service  for  the  Oracle.  Not  that  Robert 
troubled  himself  much  about  wit.  If  his  paragraphs 
had  a  sprightly  air  about  them,  it  was  sufficient. 
He  carried  this  nonchalance  so  far  at  last,  that  a 
matter  of  intelligence,  and  that  no  very  important 
one,  was  not  seldom  palmed  upon  his  employers 
for  a  good  jest ;  for  example  sake — "Walking  yes- 
terday morning  casually  down  Snow  Hill,  icho  should 
7t'e  meet  but  Mr.  Deputy  Humphreys  I  'tve  rejoice  to 
add,  that  the  worthy  Deputy  appeared  to  enjoy  a 
good  state  of  health.  We  do  not  remember  ever  to 
have  seen  him  look  better."  This  gentleman  so  sur- 
prisingly met  upon  Snow  Hill,  from  some  peculi- 
arities in  gait  or  gesture,  was  a  constant  butt  for 
mirth  to  the  small  paragraph-mongers  of  the  day  ; 


122  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

and  our  friend  thought  that  he  might  have  his  fling 
at  him  with  the  rest.  We  met  A.  in  Holborn 
shortly  after  this  extraordinary  rencounter,  which  he 
told  with  tears  of  satisfaction  in  his  eyes,  and 
chuckling  at  the  anticipated  effects  of  its  announce- 
ment next  day  in  the  paper. 

We  did  not  quite  comprehend  where  the  wit  of 
it  lay  at  the  time  ;  nor  was  it  easy  to  be  detected, 
when  the  thing  came  out  advantaged  by  type  and 
letterpress.  He  had  better  have  met  anything  that 
morning  tlian  a  Common  Council  Man.  His  ser- 
vices were  shortly  after  dispensed  with,  on  the  plea 
that  his  paragraphs  of  late  had  been  deficient  in 
point.  The  one  in  question,  it  must  be  owned, 
had  an  air,  in  the  opening  especially,  proper  to 
awaken  curiosity  ;  and  the  sentiment,  or  moral, 
wears  the  aspect  of  humanity  and  good  neighbourly 
feeling.  But  somehow  the  conclusion  was  not 
judged  altogether  to  answer  to  the  magnificent 
promise  of  the  premises.  We  traced  our  friend's 
pen  afterwards  in  the  True  Briton,  the  Star,  the 
Traveller, — from  all  which  he  was  successively  dis- 
missed, the  Proprietors  having  "  no  further  occa- 
sion for  his  services."  Nothing  was  easier  than  to 
detect  him.  When  wit  failed,  or  topics  ran  low, 
there  constantly  appeared  the  following — '^ It  is 
not  generally  known  that  the  three  Blue  Balls  at  the 
Pawnbrokers^  shops  are  the  ancient  arms  of  Lom- 
bard)/. The  Lombards  were  the  first  money-brokers 
in  Europe.'"  Bob  has  done  more  to  set  the  public 
right  on  this  important  point  of  blazonry,  than  the 
whole  College  of  Heralds. 

The  appointment  of  a  regular  wit  has  long  ceased 
to  be  a  part  of  the  economy  of  a  Morning  Paper. 
Editors  find  their  own  jokes,  or  do  as  well  without 
them.     Parson  Este,  and  Topham,  brought  up  the 


NEV^SPAPERS.  123 

set  custom  of  "  witty  paragraphs "  first  in  the 
World.  Boadai  was  a  reigning  paragraphist  in  his 
day,  and  succeeded  poor  Allen  in  the  Oracle.  But, 
as  we  said,  the  fashion  of  jokes  passes  away  ;  and 
it  would  be  difficult  to  discover  in  the  biographer 
of  Mrs.  Siddons,  any  traces  of  that  vivacity  and 
fancy  which  charmed  the  whole  town  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  present  century.  Even  the  pre- 
lusive delicacies  of  the  present  writer  —  the  curt 
"  Astraean  allusion  " — would  be  thought  pedantic 
and  out  of  date,  in  these  days. 

From  the  office  of  the  Morning  Post  (for  we  may 
as  well  exhaust  our  Newspaper  Reminiscences  at 
once)  by  change  of  property  in  the  paper,  we  were 
transferred,  mortifying  exchange  !  to  the  office  of 
the  Albion  Newspaper,  late  Rackstrow's  Museum, 
in  Fleet  Street.  "What  a  transition — from  a  hand- 
some afiartment,  from  rosewood  desks  and  silver 
inkstands,  to  an  office— no  office,  but  a  den  rather, 
but  just  redeemed  from  the  occupation  of  dead  mon- 
sters, of  which  it  seemed  redolent — from  the  centre 
of  loyalty  and  fashion,  to  a  focus  of  vulgarity  and 
sedition  !  Here  in  murky  closet,  inadequate  from 
its  square  contents  to  the  receipt  of  the  two  bodies 
of  Editor  and  humble  paragraph-maker,  together 
at  one  time,  sat  in  the  discharge  of  his  new  editorial 
functions  (the  "Bigod  "  of  Elia)  the  redoubted  John 
Fenwick. 

F.,  without  a  guinea  in  his  pocket,  and  having 
left  not  many  in  the  pockets  of  his  friends  whom 
he  might  command,  had  purchased  (on  tick,  doubt- 
less) the  whole  and  sole  Editorship,  Proprietor- 
ship, with  all  the  rights  and  titles  (such  as  they 
were  worth)  of  the  Albion  from  one  Lovell ;  of 
whom  we  know  nothing,  save  that  he  had  stood 
to.  the  pillory  for  a  libel  on  the  Prince  of  Wales. 


124  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA. 

With  this  hopeless  concern — for  it  had  been  sink- 
ing ever  since  its  commencement,  and  could  now 
reckon  upon  not  more  than  a  hundred  subscribers 
— F.  resolutely  determined  upon  pulling  down  the 
Government  in  the  first  instance,  and  making  both 
our  fortunes  by  way  of  corollary.  For  seven  weeks 
and  more  did  this  infatuated  demociat  go  about 
borrowing  seven-shilling  pieces,  and  lesser  coin,  to 
meet  the  daily  demands  of  the  Stamp  Office,  which 
allowed  no  credit  to  publications  of  that  side  in 
politics.  An  outcast  from  politer  bread,  we  at- 
tached our  small  talents  to  the  forlorn  fortunes  of 
our  friend.  Our  occupation  now  was  to  write 
treason. 

Recollections  of  feelings — which  were  all  that 
now  remained  from  our  first  boyish  heats  kindled 
by  the  French  Revolution,  when,  if  we  were  mis- 
led, we  erred  in  the  company  of  some  who  are 
accounted  very  good  men  now — rather  than  any 
tendency  at  this  time  to  Republican  doctrines — 
assisted  us  in  assuming  a  style  of  writing,  while 
the  paper  lasted,  consonant  in  no  veiy  undertone 
to  the  right  earnest  fanaticism  of  F.  Our  cue 
was  now  to  insinuate,  rather  than  recommend, 
possible  abdications.  Blocks,  axes,  Whitehall  tri- 
bunals, were  covered  with  flowers  of  so  cunning  a 
periphrasis — as  Mr.  Bayes  says,  never  naming  the 
thing  directly — that  the  keen  eye  of  an  Attorney- 
General  was  insufficient  to  detect  the  lurking  snake 
among  them.  There  were  times,  indeed,  when 
we  sighed  for  our  more  gentleman-like  occupation 
under  Stuart.  But  with  change  of  masters  it  is 
ever  change  of  service.  Already  one  paragraph, 
and  another,  as  we  learned  afterwards  from  a  gen- 
tleman at  the  Treasury,  had  begun  to  be  marked 
at  that  office,  with  a  view  of  its  being  submitted  at 


NEIVSPAPEKS.  i-iz 

least  to  the  attention  of  the  proper  Law  Officers — 
when  an  unlucky,  or  rather  lucky  epigram  from  our 

pen,  aimed  at  Sir  J s  M h,  who  was  on  the 

eve  of  departing  for  India  to  reap  the  fruits  of  his 
apostacy,  as  F.  pronounced  it,  (it  is  hardly  worth 
particularizing,)  happening  to  offend  the  nice  sense 
of  Lord  (or,  as  he  then  delighted  to  be  called  Citi- 
zen) Stanhope,  deprived  F.  at  once  of  the  last 
hopes  of  a  guinea  from  the  last  patron  that  had 
stuck  by  us  ;  and  breaking  up  our  establishment, 
left  us  to  the  safe,  but  somewhat  mortifying,  neglect 
of  the  Crown  Lawyers.  It  was  about  this  time,  or 
a  little  earlier,  that  Dan  Stuart  made  that  curious 
confession  to  us,  that  he  had  "  never  deliberately 
walked  into  an  Exhibition  at  Somerset  House  in 
his  life." 


BARRENNESS    OF    THE    IMAGINATIVE 

FACULTY  IN  THE  PRODUCTIONS 

OF   MODERN   ART. 


OGARTH  excepted,  can  we  produce 
any  one  painter  within  the  last  fifty 
years,  or  since  the  humour  of  exhibiting 
began,  that  has  treated  a  story  imagina- 
iivelyl  By  this  we  mean,  upon  whom  his  sub- 
ject has  so  acted,  that  it  has  seemed  to  direct  him 
—not  to  be  arranged  by  him  ?  Any  upon  w  horn 
its  leading  or  collateral  points  have  impressed 
themselves  so  tyrannically;  that  he  dared  not  treat 
it  otherwise,  lest  he  should  falsify  a  revelation? 
Any  that  has  imparted  to  his  compositions,  not 
merely  so  much  truth  as  is  enough  to  convey  a 
story  with  clearness,  but  that  individualizing  pro- 
perty, which  should  keep  the  subject  so  treated 
distinct  in  feature  from  every  other  subject,  how- 
ever similar,  and  to  common  apprehensions  almost 
identical ;  so  that  we  might  say,  this  and  this  part 
could  have  found  an  appropriate  place  in  no  other 
picture  in  the  world  but  this?  Is  there  anything  in 
modern  art — we  will  not  demand  that  it  should  be 
equal — but  in  any  way  analogous  to  what  Titian 
has  effected,  in  that  wonderful  bringing  together 


THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY.  127 

of  two  times  in  the  "Ariadne,"  in  the  National 
Gallery  ?  Precipitous,  with  his  reeling  satyr  rout 
about  him,  re-peopling  and  re-illuming  suddenly 
the  waste  places,  drunk  with  a  new  fuiy  beyond 
the  grape,  Bacchus,  born  in  fire,  fire-like  flings 
himself  at  the  Cretan.  This  is  the  time  present. 
With  this  telling  of  the  story,  an  artist,  and  no 
ordinary  one,  might  remain  richly  proud.  Guido, 
in  his  harmonious  version  of  it,  saw  no  farther. 
But  from  the  depths  of  the  imaginative  spirit  Titian 
has  recalled  past  time,  and  laid  it  contributory 
with  the  present  to  one  simultaneous  effect.  With 
the  desert  all  ringing  with  the  mad  cymbals  of  his 
followers,  made  lucid  with  the  presence  and  new 
offers  of  a  god, — as  if  unconscious  of  Bacchus,  or 
but  idly  casting  her  eyes  as  upon  some  unconcern- 
ing  pageant — her  soul  undistracted  from  TheseuS 
— Ariadne  is  still  pacing  the  solitary  shore  in  as 
much  heart-silence,  and  in  almost  the  same  local 
solitude,  with  which  she  awoke  at  day-break  to 
catch  the  forlorn  last  glances  of  the  sail  that  bore 
away  the  Athenian. 

Here  are  two  points  miraculously  co-uniting ; 
fierce  society,  with  the  feeling  of  solitude  still  ab- 
solute ;  noonday  revelations,  with  the  accidents  of 
the  dull  grey  dawn  unquenched  and  lingering; 
the  present  Bacchus,  with  the  past  Ariadne :  two 
stories,  with  double  Time  ;  separate,  and  harmo- 
nizing. Had  the  artist  made  the  woman  one  shade 
less  indifferent  to  the  God ;  still  more,  had  she  ex- 
pressed a  rapture  at  his  advent,  where  would  have 
been  the  story  of  the  mighty  desolation  of  the 
heart  previous  ?  merged  in  the  insipid  accident  of 
a  flattering  off'er  met  with  a  welcome  acceptance. 
The  broken  heart  for  Theseus  was  not  likely  to  be 
pieced  up  by  a  God. 


128  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

We  have  before  us  a  fine  rough  print,  from  a 
picture  by  Raphael  in  the  Vatican.  It  is  the  Pre- 
sentation of  the  new-born  Eve  to  Adam  by  the 
Almighty.  A  fairer  mother  of  mankind  we  might 
imagine,  and  a  goodlier  sire  perhaps  of  men  since 
born.  But  these  are  matters  subordinate  to  the 
conception  of  the  situatio7i,  displayed  in  this  ex- 
traordinary production.  A  tolerable  modern  artist 
would  have  been  satisfied  with  tempering  certain 
raptures  of  connubial  anticipation,  with  a  suitable 
acknowledgment  to  the  Giver  of  the  blessing,  in 
the  countenance  of  the  first  bridegroom :  something 
like  the  divided  attention  of  the  child  (Adam  was 
here  a  child-man)  between  the  given  toy,  and  the 
mother  who  had  just  blest  it  with  the  bauble.  This 
is  the  obvious,  the  first-sight  view,  the  superficial. 
An  artist  of  a  higher  grade,  considering  the  awful 
presence  they  were  in,  would  have  taken  care  to 
subtract  something  from  the  expression  of  the  more 
human  passion,  and  to  heighten  the  more  spiritual 
one.  This  would  be  as  much  as  an  exhibition- 
goer,  from  the  opening  of  Somerset  House  to  last 
year's  show,  has  been  encouraged  to  look  for.  It 
is  obvious  to  hint  at  a  lower  expression  yet,  in  a 
picture  that,  for  respects  of  drawing  and  colouring, 
might  be  deemed  not  wholly  inadmissible  within 
these  art-fostering  walls,  in  which  the  raptures 
should  be  as  ninety-nine,  the  gratitude  as  one,  or 
perhaps  zero  !  By  neither  the  one  passion  nor  the 
otherhas  Raphael  expounded  the  situation  of  Adam. 
Singly  upon  his  brow  sits  the  absorbing  sense  of 
wonder  at  the  created  miracle.  The  moment  is 
seized  by  the  intuitive  artist,  perhaps  not  self- 
conscious  of  his  art,  in  which  neither  of  the  con- 
flicting emotions — a  moment  how  abstracted  ! — 
have  had  time  to  spring  up,  or  to  battle  for  inde« 


THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY.  139 

corous  mastery. — We  have  seen  a  landscape  of  a 
justly-admired  neoteric,  in  which  he  aimed  at  de- 
lineating a  fiction,  one  of  the  most  severely  beau- 
tiful in  antiquity-^the  gardens  of  the  Hesperides. 

To  do  Mr. justice,  he  had  painted  a  laudable 

orchard,  with  fitting  seclusion,  and  a  veritable 
dragon  (of  which  a  Polypheme,  by  Poussin,  is 
somehow  a  fac-simile  for  the  situation),  looking 
over  into  the  world  shut  out  backwards,  so  that 
none  but  a  "still-climbing  Hercules"  could  hope 
to  catch  a  peep  at  the  admired  Ternary  of  Recluses. 
No  conventual  porter  could  keep  his  keys  better 
than  this  custos  with  the  "lidless  eyes."  He  not 
only  sees  that  none  do  intrude  into  that  privacy, 
but,  as  clear  as  daylight,  that  none  but  Hercules 
aut  Diabolus  by  any  manner  of  means  can.  So  far 
all  is  well.  We  have  absolute  solitude  here  or  no- 
where. Ab  extra,  the  damsels  are  snug  enough. 
But  here  the  artist's  courage  seems  to  have  failed 
him.  He  began  to  pity  his  pretty  charge,  and,  to 
comfort  the  irksomeness,  has  peopled  their  solitude 
with  a  bevy  of  fair  attendants,  maids  of  honour,  or 
ladies  of  the  bed-chamber,  according  to  the  ap- 
proved etiquette  at  a  court  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury ;  giving  to  the  whole  scene  the  air  of  a  fitC' 
chantpetre,  if  we  will  but  excuse  the  absence  of  the 
gentlemen.  This  is  well,  and  Watteauish.  But 
what  is  become  of  the  solitary  mysteiy — the 

Daughters  three. 
That  sing  around  the  golden  tree  ? 

This  is  not  the  way  in  which  Poussin  would  have 
treated  this  subject. 

The  paintings,  or  rather  the  stupendous  archi- 
tectural designs,  of  a  modem  artist,  have  been 
urged  as  objections  to  the  theory  of  our  motto. 

II.  K 


I30  LAST  ASSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

They  are  of  a  character,  we  confess,  to  stagger  it. 
His  towered  structures  are  of  the  highest  order  of 
the  material  subhine.  Whether  they  were  dreams, 
or  transcripts  of  some  elder  workmanship — Assyrian 
ruins  old — restored  by  this  mighty  artist,  they  satisfy 
our  most  stretched  and  craving  conceptions  of  the 
glories  of  the  antique  world.  It  is  a  pity  that  they 
were  ever  peopled.  On  that  side,  the  imagination 
of  the  artist  halts,  and  appears  defective.  Let  us 
examine  the  point  of  the  story  in  the  "  Belshazzar's 
Feast."  We  will  introduce  it  by  an  apposite  anec- 
dote. 

The  court  historians  of  the  day  record,  that  at  the 
first  dinner  given  by  the  late  King  (then  Prince 
Regent)  at  the  Pavilion,  the  following  characteristic 
frolic  was  played  off.  The  guests  were  select  and 
admiring;  the  banquet  profuse  and  admirable;  the 
lights  lustrous  and  oriental ;  the  eye  was  perfectly 
dazzled  with  the  display  of  plate,  among  which  the 
great  gold  salt-cellar,  brought  from  the  regalia  in 
the  Tower  for  this  especial  purpose,  itself  a  tower ! 
stood  conspicuous  for  its  magnitude.  And  now  the 
Rev.  *  *  *^  the  then  admired  court  Chaplain, 
was  proceeding  with  the  grace,  when,  at  a  signal 
given,  the  lights  were  suddenly  overcast,  and  a 
huge  transparency  was  discovered,  in  which  glit- 
tered in  gold  letters — 

"Brighton — Earthquake — Swallow-up- 
Alive  ! " 
Imagine  the  confusion  of  the  guests ;  the  Georges 
and  garters,  jewels,  bracelets,  moulted  upon  the 
occasion !  The  fans  dropped,  and  picked  up  the 
next  morning  by  the  sly  court-pages  !  Mrs.  Fitz- 
what's-her-name  fainting,  and  the  Countess  of  *  *  * 
holding  the  smelling-bottle,  till  the  good-humoured 


THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY.  131 

Prince  caused  harmony  to  be  restored,  by  calling  in 
fresh  candles,  and  declaring  that  the  whole  was 
nothing  but  a  pantomime  hoax,  got  up  by  the  in- 
genious Mr.  Farley,  of  Covent  Garden,  from  hints 
which  his  Royal  Highness  himself  had  furnished! 
Then  imagine  the  infinite  applause  that  followed, 
the  mutual  rallyings,  the  declarations  that  "they 
were  not  much  frightened,"  of  the  assembled 
galaxy. 

The  point  of  time  in  the  picture  exactly  answers 
to  the  appearance  of  the  transparency  in  the  anec- 
dote. The  huddle,  the  flutter,  the  bustle,  the  es- 
cape, the  alarm,  and  the  mock  alarm ;  the  pretti- 
nesses  heightened  by  consternation ;  the  courtier's 
fear  which  was  flatteiy;  and  the  lady's  which  was 
affectation  ;  all  that  we  may  conceive  to  have  taken 
place  in  a  mob  of  Brighton  courtiers,  sympathizing 
with  the  well-acted  surprise  of  their  sovereign  ;  all 
this,  and  no  more,  is  exhibited  by  the  well-dressed 
lords  and  ladies  in  the  Hall  of  Belus.  Just  this  sort 
of  consternation  we  have  seen  among  a  flock  of 
disquieted  wild  geese  at  the  report  only  of  a  gun 
having  gone  off ! 

But  is  this  vulgar  fright,  this  mere  animal  anxiety 
for  the  preservation  of  their  persons — such  as  we 
have  witnessed  at  a  theatre,  when  a  slight  alarm  of 
fire  has  been  given — an  adequate  exponent  of  a 
supernatural  terror  ?  the  way  in  which  the  finger  of 
God,  writing  judgments,  would  have  been  met  by 
the  withered  conscience  ?  There  is  a  human  fear, 
and  a  divine  fear.  The  one  is  disturbed,  restless, 
and  bent  upon  escape  ;  the  other  is  bov/ed  down, 
effortless,  passive.  When  the  spirit  appeared  before 
Eliphaz  in  the  visions  of  the  night,  and  the  hair  of 
his  flesh  stood  up,  was  it  in  the  thoughts  of  the 
Temanite  to  ring  the  bell  of  his  chamber,  or  to 


132  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

call  up  the  servants  ?  But  let  us  see  in  the  text 
what  there  is  to  justify  all  this  huddle  of  vulgar 
consternation. 

From  the  words  of  Daniel  it  appears  that  Bel- 
caazzar  had  made  a  great  feast  to  a  thousand  of  his 
lords,  and  drank  wine  before  the  thousand.  The 
golden  and  silver  vessels  are  gorgeously  enumerated, 
with  the  princes,  the  king's  concubines,  and  his 
wives.     Then  follows — 

"  In  the  same  hour  came  forth  fingers  of  a  man's 
hand,  and  wrote  over  against  the  candlestick  upon 
the  plaster  of  the  wall  of  the  king's  palace  ;  and  the 
king  saw  the  part  of  the  hand  that  wrote.  Then  the 
king's  countenance  was  changed,  and  his  thoughts 
troubled  him,  so  that  the  joints  of  his  loins  were 
loosened,  and  his  knees  smote  one  against  an- 
other. " 

This  is  the  plain  text.  By  no  hint  can  it  be 
otherwise  inferred,  but  that  the  appearance  was 
solely  confined  to  the  fancy  of  Belshazzar,  that  his 
single  brain  was  troubled.  Not  a  word  is  spoken 
of  its  being  seen  by  any  else  there  present,  not  even 
by  the  queen  herself,  who  merely  undertakes  for 
the  interpretation  of  the  phenomenon,  as  related  to 
her,  doubtless,  by  her  husband.  The  lords  are 
simply  said  to  be  astonished ;  i.e.  at  the  trouble 
and  the  change  of  countenance  in  their  sovereign. 
Even  the  prophet  does  not  appear  to  have  seen  the 
scroll,  which  the  king  saw.  He  recalls  it  only,  as 
Joseph  did  the  Dream  to  the  King  of  Egypt. 
' '  Then  was  the  part  of  the  hand  sent  from  him 
[the  Lord],  and  this  writing  was  written."  He 
speaks  of  the  phantasm  as  past. 

Then  what  becomes  of  this  needless  multiplica- 
tion of  the  miracle  ?  this  message  to  a  royal  con- 
science, singly  expressed — for  it  was  said,  "Thy 


THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY.  133 

kingdom  is  divided," — simultaneously  impressed 
upon  the  fancies  of  a  thousand  courtiers,  who 
were  implied  in  it  neither  directly  nor  grammati- 
cally ? 

But,  admitting  the  artist's  own  version  of  the 
story,  and  that  the  sight  was  seen  also  by  the  thou- 
sand courtiers— let  it  have  been  visible  to  all 
Babylon — as  the  knees  of  Belshazzar  were  shaken, 
and  his  countenance  troubled,  even  so  would  the 
knees  of  every  man  in  Babylon,  and  their  counte- 
nances, as  ofan  individual  man,  have  been  troubled  ; 
bowed,  bent  down,  so  would  they  have  remained, 
stupor-fixed,  with  no  thought  of  struggling  with 
that  inevitable  judgment. 

Not  all  that  is  optically  possible  to  be  seen,  is  to 
be  shown  in  every  picture.  The  eye  delightedly 
dwells  upon  the  brilliant  individualities  in  a  "  Mar- 
riage at  Cana,"  by  Veronese,  or  Titian,  to  the  very 
texture  and  colour  of  the  wedding  garments,  the 
ring  glittering  upon  the  bride's  finger,  the  metal 
and  fashion  of  the  wine-pots ;  for  at  such  seasons 
there  is  leisure  and  luxury  to  be  curious.  But  in  a 
"day  of  judgment, "  or  in  a  "  day  of  lesser  horrors, 
yet  divine,"  as  at  the  impious  feast  of  Belshazzar, 
the  eye  should  see,  as  the  actual  eye  of  an  agent  or 
patient  in  the  immediate  scene  would  see,  only  in 
masses  and  indistinction.  Not  only  the  female 
attire  and  jewellery  exposed  to  the  critical  eye  ol 
the  fashion,  as  minutely  as  the  dresses  in  a  Lady's 
Magazine,  in  the  criticized  picture— but  perhaps 
the  curiosities  of  anatomical  science,  and  studied 
diversities  of  posture,  in  the  falling  angels  and 
sinners  of  Michael  Angelo, — have  no  business  in 
their  great  subjects.  There  was  no  leisure  for 
them. 

By   a   wise   falsification,    the  great   masters   of 


134  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

painting  got  at  their  true  conclusions;  by  not 
showing  the  actual  appearances,  that  is,  all  that 
was  to  be  seen  at  any  given  moment  by  an  indif- 
ferent eye,  but  only  what  the  eye  might  be  supposed 
to  see  in  the  doing  or  suffering  of  some  portentous 
action.  Suppose  the  moment  of  the  swallowing  up 
of  Pompeii.  There  they  were  to  be  seen — houses, 
columns,  architectural  proportions,  differences  of 
public  and  private  buildings,  men  and  women  at 
their  standing  occupations,  the  diversified  thousand 
postures,  attitudes,  dresses,  in  some  confusion  truly, 
but  physically  they  were  visible.  But  what  eye  saw 
them  at  that  eclipsing  moment,  which  reduces  con- 
fusion to  a  kind  of  unity,  and  when  the  senses  are 
upturned  from  their  proprieties,  when  sight  and 
hearing  are  a  feeling  only  ?  A  thousand  years  have 
passed,  and  we  are  at  leisure  to  contemplate  the 
weaver  fixed  standing  at  his  shuttle,  the  baker  at 
his  oven,  and  to  turn  over  with  antiquarian  coolness 
the  pots  and  pans  of  Pompeii. 

"  Sun,  stand  thou  still  upon  Gibeon,  and  thou. 
Moon,  in  the  valley  of  Ajalon."  Who,  in  reading 
this  magnificent  Hebraism,  in  his  conception,  sees 
aught  but  the  heroic  son  of  Nun,  with  the  out- 
stretched arm,  and  the  greater  and  lesser  light  ob- 
sequious ?  Doubtless  there  were  to  be  seen  hill  and 
dale,  and  chariots  and  horsemen,  on  open  plain,  or 
winding  by  secret  defiles,  and  all  the  circumstances 
and  stratagems  of  war.  But  whose  eyes  would  have 
been  conscious  of  this  array  at  the  interposition  of 
the  synchronic  miracle  ?  Yet  in  the  picture  of  this 
subject  by  the  artist  of  the  "  Belshazzar's  Feast" — 
no  ignoble  work,  either — the  marshalling  and  land- 
scape of  the  war  is  everything,  the  miracle  sinks 
into  an  anecdote  of  the  day ;  and  the  eye  may  ' '  dart 
through  rank  and  file  traverse"  for  some  minutes, 


THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY.  MS 

before  it  shall  discover,  among  his  armed  followers, 
which  is  Joshua!  Not  modern  art  alone,  but  an- 
cient, where  only  it  is  to  be  found  if  anywhere,  can 
be  detected  erring,  from  defect  of  this  imaginative 
faculty.  The  world  has  nothing  to  show  of  the 
preternatural  in  painting,  transcending  the  figure 
of  Lazarus  bursting  his  grave-clothes,  in  the  great 
picture  at  Angerstein's.  It  seems  a  thing  between 
two  beings.  A  ghastly  horror  at  itself  struggles 
with  newly-apprehending  gratitude  at  second  life 
bestowed.  It  cannot  forget  that  it  was  a  ghost.  It 
has  hardly  felt  that  it  is  a  body.  It  has  to  tell  of 
the  world  of  spirits. — Was  it  from  a  feeling,  that 
the  crowd  of  half-impassioned  by-standers,  and  the 
still  more  irrelevant  herd  of  passers-by  at  a  distance, 
who  have  not  heard,  or  but  faintly  have  been  told 
of  the  passing  miracle,  admirable  as  they  are  in 
design  and  hue — for  it  is  a  glorified  work — do  not 
respond  adequately  to  the  action— that  the  single 
figure  of  the  Lazarus  has  been  attributed  to  Michael 
Angelo,  and  the  mighty  Sebastian  unfairly  robbed 
of  the  fame  of  the  greater  half  of  the  interest  ?  Now 
that  there  were  not  indifferent  passers-by  within 
actual  scope  of  the  eyes  of  those  present  at  the 
miracle,  to  whom  the  sound  of  it  had  but  faintly, 
or  not  at  all,  reached,  it  would  be  hardihood  to 
deny;  but  would  they  see  them?  or  can  the  mind 
in  the  conception  of  it  admit  of  such  unconceming 
objects;  can  it  think  of  them  at  all?  or  what  as- 
sociating league  to  the  imagination  can  there  be 
between  the  seers  and  the  seers  not,  of  a  presential 
miracle  ? 

Were  an  artist  to  paint  upon  demand  a  picture  of 
a  Dryad,  we  will  ask  whether,  in  the  present  low 
state  of  expectation,  the  patron  would  not,  or  ought 
not  be  fully  satisfied  with  a  beautiful  naked  figure 


«36  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

recumbent  under  wide-stretched  oaks?  Dis-seat 
those  woods,  and  place  the  same  figure  among 
fountains,  and  falls  of  pellucid  water,  and  you  have 
a — Naiad  !  Not  so  in  a  rough  print  we  have  seen 
after  Julio  Romano,  we  think — for  it  is  long  since 
— there,  by  no  process,  with  mere  change  of  scene, 
could  the  figure  have  reciprocated  characters.  Long, 
grotesque,  fantastic,  yet  with  a  grace  of  her  own, 
beautiful  in  convolution  and  distortion,  linked  to 
her  connatural  tree,  co-twisting  with  its  limbs  her 
own,  till  both  seemed  either — these,  animated 
branches  ;  those,  disanimated  members — yet  the 
animal  and  vegetable  lives  sufficiently  kept  distinct 
— his  Dryad  lay — an  approximation  of  two  natures, 
which  to  conceive,  it  must  be  seen  ;  analogous  to, 
not  the  same  with,  the  delicacies  of  Ovidian  trans- 
formations. 

To  the  lowest  subjects,  and,  to  a  superficial  com- 
prehension, the  most  barren,  the  Great  Masters 
gave  loftiness  and  fruitfulness.  The  large  eye  of 
genius  saw  in  the  meanness  of  present  objects  their 
capabilities  of  treatment  from  their  relations  to 
some  grand  Past  or  Future.  How  has  Raphael — 
we  must  still  linger  about  the  Vatican— treated  the 
humble  craft  of  the  ship-builder,  in  his  "  Building 
of  the  Ark?"  It  is  in  that  scriptural  series,  to 
which  we  have  referred,  and  which,  judging  from 
some  fine  rough  old  graphic  sketches  of  them  which 
v/e  possess,  seem  to  be  of  a  higher  and  more  poetic 
grade  than  even  the  Cartoons.  The  dim  of  sight  are 
the  timid  and  the  shrinking.  There  is  a  cowardice 
in  modern  art.  As  the  Frenchman,  of  whom  Cole- 
ridge's friend  made  the  prophetic  guess  at  Rome, 
from  the  beard  and  horns  of  the  Moses  of  Michael 
Angelo  collected  no  inferences  beyond  that  of  a 
Ke  Goat  and  a  Cornuto ;  so  from  this  subject,  of 


THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY  137 

mere  mechanic  promise,  it  would  instinctively  turn 
away,  as  from  one  incapable  of  investiture  with  any 
grandeur.  The  dock-yards  at  Woolwich  would 
object  derogatory  associations.  The  depot  at 
Chatham  would  be  the  mote  and  the  beam  in  its  in- 
tellectual eye.  But  not  to  the  nautical  preparations 
in  the  ship-yards  of  Civita  Vecchia  did  Raphael 
look  for  instructions,  when  he  imagined  the  building 
of  the  Vessel  that  was  to  be  conservatory  of  the 
wrecks  of  the  species  of  drowned  mankind.  In  the 
intensity  of  the  action  he  keeps  ever  out  of  sight 
the  meanness  of  the  operation.  There  is  the 
Patriarch,  in  calm  forethought,  and  with  holy  pre- 
science, giving  directions.  And  there  are  his  agents 
— the  solitary  but  sufficient  Three — hewing,  sawing, 
every  one  with  the  might  and  earnestness  of  a  Demi- 
urgus ;  under  some  instinctive  rather  than  technical 
guidance  !  giant-muscled ;  every  one  a  Hercules ; 
or  liker  to  those  Vulcanian  Three,  that  in  sounding 
caverns  under  Mongibello  wrought  in  fire — Brontes, 
and  black  Steropes,  and  Pyracmon.  So  work  the 
workmen  that  should  repair  a  world  ! 

Artists  again  err  in  the  confounding  of /^d'/i.- with 
pictorial  subjects.  In  the  latter,  the  exterior  acci- 
dents are  nearly  everything,  the  unseen  qualities  as 
nothing.  Othello's  colour— the  infirmities  and 
corpulence  of  a  Sir  John  Falstaff — do  they  haunt 
us  perpetually  in  the  reading?  or  are  they  ob- 
truded upon  our  conceptions  one  time  for  ninety- 
nine  that  we  are  lost  in  admiration  at  the  respective 
moral  or  intellectual  attributes  of  the  character? 
But  in  a  picture  Othello  is  always  a  Blackamoor  ; 
and  the  other  only  Plump  Jack.  Deeply  corpo- 
realized,  and  enchained  hopelessly  in  the  grovelling 
fetters  of  externality,  must  be  the  mind,  to  which, 
in  its  better  moments,  the  image  of  the  higli-souled, 


138  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

high-intelligenced  Quixote — the  errant  Star  of 
Knighthood,  made  more  tender  by  eclipse — has 
never  presented  itself  divested  from  the  unhallowed 
accompaniment  of  a  Sancho,  or  a  rabblement  at 
the  heels  of  Rosinante.  That  man  has  read  his 
book  by  halves;  he  has  laughed,  mistaking  his 
author's  purport,  which  was— tears.  The  artist 
that  pictures  Quixote  (and  it  is  in  this  degrading 
point  that  he  is  every  season  held  up  at  our  Ex- 
hibitions) in  the  shallow  hope  of  exciting  mirth, 
would  have  joined  the  rabble  at  the  heels  of  his 
starved  steed.  We  wish  not  to  see  that  counter- 
feited, which  we  would  not  have  wished  to  see  in 
the  reality.  Conscious  of  the  heroic  inside  of  the 
noble  Quixote,  who,  on  hearing  that  his  withered 
person  was  passing,  would  have  stepped  over  his 
threshold  to  gaze  upon  his  forlorn  habiliments,  and 
the  "strange  bed-fellows  which  misery  brings  a 
man  acquainted  with?"  Shade  of  Cervantes  !  who 
in  thy  Second  Part  could  put  into  the  mouth  of  thy 
Quixote  those  high  aspirations  of  a  super-chivalrous 
gallantry,  where  he  replies  to  one  of  the  shep- 
herdesses, apprehensive  that  he  would  spoil  the'ir 
pretty  net-works,  and  inviting  him  to  be  a  guest 
with  them,  in  accents  like  these  :  "Truly,  fairest 
Lady,  Actseon  was  not  more  astonished  when  he 
saw  Diana  bathing  herself  at  the  fountain,  than  I 
have  been  in  beholding  your  beauty  :  I  commend 
the  manner  of  your  pastime,  and  thank  you  for 
your  kind  offers  ;  and,  if  I  may  serve  you,  so  I 
may  be  sure  you  will  be  obeyed,  you  may  command 
me  :  for  my  profession  is  this.  To  show  myself 
thankful,  and  a  doer  of  good  to  all  sorts  of  people, 
especially  of  the  rank  that  your  person  shows  you 
to  be  ;  and  if  those  nets,  as  they  take  up  but  a  little 
piece  of  ground,  should  take  up  the  whole  world, 


THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY.  139 

I  would  seek  out  new  worlds  to  pass  through,  rather 
than  break  them  :  and  (he  adds)  that  you  may  give 
credit  to  this  my  exaggeration,  behold  at  least  he 
that  promiseth  you  this,  is  Don  Quixote  de  la 
Mancha,  if  haply  this  name  hath  come  to  your 
hearing."  Illustrious  Romancer!  were  the  "  fine 
frenzies,"  which  possessed  the  brain  of  thy  own 
Quixote,  a  fit  subject,  as  in  this  Second  Part,  to  be 
exposed  to  the  jeers  of  Duennas  and  Serving-men  ? 
to  be  monstered,  and  shown  up  at  the  heartless 
banquets  of  great  men  ?  Was  that  pitiable  infirmity, 
which  in  thy  First  Part  misleads  him,  ahvays  from 
jinthm,  into  half-ludicrous,  but  more  than  half- 
compassionable  and  admirable  errors,  not  infliction 
enough  from  heaven,  that  men  by  studied  artifices 
must  devise  and  practise  upon  the  humour,  to  in- 
flame where  they  should  soothe  it  ?  Why,  Goneril 
would  have  blushed  to  practise  upon  the  abdicated 
king  at  this  rate,  and  the  she-wolf  Regan  not  have 
endured  to  play  the  pranks  upon  his  fled  wits,  which 
thou  hast  made  thy  Quixote  suffer  in  Duchesses' 
halls,  and  at  the  hands  of  that  unworthy  noble- 
man.' 

In  the  First  Adventures,  even,  it  needed  all  the 
art  of  the  most  consummate  artist  in  the  Book  way 
that  the  world  hath  yet  seen,  to  keep  up  in  the 
mind  of  the  reader  the  heroic  attributes  of  the  cha- 
racter without  relaxing  ;  so  as  absolutely  that  they 
shall  suffer  no  alloy  from  the  debasing  fellowship 
of  the  clown.  If  it  ever  obtrudes  itself  as  a  dis- 
harmony, are  we  inclined  to  laugh  ;  or  not,  rather, 
to  indulge  a  contrary  emotion? — Cervantes,  stung, 
perchance,  by  the  relish  with  which  his  Reading 
Public  had  received  the  fooleries  of  the  man,  more 

1  Yet  from  this  Second  Part,  our  cr'ed-up  pictures  are 
mostly  selected  :  the  waiting-women  with  beards,  &c. 


I40  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

to  their  palates  than  the  generosities  of  the  master, 
in  the  sequel  let  his  pen  run  riot,  lost  the  harmony 
and  the  balance,  and  sacrificed  a  great  idea  to  the 
taste  of  his  contemporaries.  We  know  that  in  the 
present  day  the  Knight  has  fewer  admirers  than  the 
Squire.  Anticipating,  what  did  actually  happen  to 
him — as  afterwards  it  did  to  his  scarce  inferior  fol- 
lower, the  Author  of  "Guzman  de  Alfarache" — 
that  some  less  knowing  hand  would  prevent  him 
by  a  spurious  Second  Part ;  and  judging  that  it 
would  be  easier  for  his  competitor  to  outbid  him 
in  the  comicalities,  than  in  the  roinaiti-e,  of  his 
work,  he  abandoned  his  Knight,  and  has  fairly  set 
up  the  Squire  for  his  Hero.  For  what  else  has  he 
unsealed  the  eyes  of  Sancho  ?  and  instead  of  that 
twilight  state  of  semi-insanity — the  madness  at  se- 
cond-hand— the  contagion,  caught  from  a  stronger 
mind  infected — that  war  between  native  cunning, 
and  hereditaiy  deference,  with  which  he  has  hitherto 
accompanied  his  master — two  for  a  pair  almost — 
does  he  substitute  a  downright  Knave,  with  open 
eyes,  for  his  own  ends  only  following  a  confessed 
Madman  ;  and  offering  at  one  time  to  lay,  if  not 
actually  laying,  hands  upon  him  !  From  the  mo- 
ment that  Sancho  loses  his  reverence,  Don  Quixote 
is  become — a  treatable  lunatic.  Our  artists  handle 
him  accordingly. 


THE   WEDDING. 


DO  not  know  when  I  have  been  better 
pleased  than  at  being  invited  last  week 
to  be  present  at  the  wedding  of  a  friend's 
daughter.  I  like  to  make  one  at  these 
ceremonies,  which  to  us  old  people  give  back 
our  youth  in  a  manner,  and  restore  our  gayest 
season,  in  the  remembrance  of  our  own  success, 
or  the  regrets,  scarcely  less  tender,  of  our  own 
youthful  disappointments,  in  this  point  of  a  settle- 
ment. On  these  occasions  I  am  sure  to  be  in  good 
humour  for  a  week  or  two  after,  and  enjoy  a  re- 
flected honeymoon.  Being  without  a  family,  I  am 
flattered  with  these  temporary  adoptions  into  a 
friend's  family  ;  I  feel  a  sort  of  cousinhood,  or 
uncleship,  for  the  season  ;  I  am  inducted  into  de- 
grees of  affinity ;  and,  in  the  participated  socialities 
of  the  little  community,  I  lay  down  for  a  brief  while 
my  solitary  bachelorship.  I  carry  this  humour  so 
far,  that  I  take  it  unkindly  to  be  left  out,  even 
when  a  funeral  is  going  on  in  the  house  of  a  dear 

friend.     But  to  my  subject. 

The  union  itself  had  been  long  settled,  but  its 
celebration  had  been  hitherto  deferred,  to  an  almost 
unreasonable  state  of  suspense  in  the  lovers,  by 
some  invincible  prejudices  which  the  bride's  father 


142  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

had  unhappily  contracted  upon  the  subject  of  the 
too  early  marriages  of  females.  He  has  been  lec- 
turing any  time  these  five  years — for  to  that  length 
the  courtship  had  been  protracted — upon  the  pro- 
priety of  putting  off  the  solemnity,  till  the  lady 
should  have  completed  her  five-and-twentieth  year. 
We  all  began  to  be  afraid  that  a  suit,  which  as  yet 
had  abated  of  none  of  its  ardours,  might  at  last  be 
lingered  on,  till  passion  had  time  to  cool,  and  love 
go  out  in  the  experiment.  But  a  little  wheedling 
on  the  part  of  his  wife,  who  was  by  no  means  a 
party  to  these  overstrained  notions,  joined  to  some 
serious  expostulations  on  that  of  his  friends,  who, 
from  the  growing  infirmities  of  the  old  gentleman, 
could  not  promise  ourselves  many  years'  enjoy- 
ment of  his  company,  and  were  anxious  to  bring 
matters  to  a  conclusion  during  his  lifetime,  at 
length  prevailed  ;  and  on  Monday  last  the  daughter 

cf  my  old  friend,  Admiral ,  having  attained 

the  womanly  age  of  nineteen,  was  conducted  to  the 

church   by  her  pleasant  cousin   J ,   who  told 

some  few  years  older. 

Before  the  youthful  part  of  my  female  readers 
express  their  indignation  at  the  abominable  loss  of 
time  occasioned  to  the  lovers  by  the  preposterous 
notions  of  my  old  friend,  they  will  do  well  to  con- 
sider the  reluctance  which  a  fond  parent  naturally 
feels  at  parting  with  his  child.  To  this  unwilling- 
ness, I  believe,  in  most  cases  may  be  traced  the 
difference  of  opinion  on  this  point  between  child 
and  parent,  whatever  pretences  of  interest  or  pru- 
dence may  be  held  out  to  cover  it.  The  hard- 
heartedness  of  fathers  is  a  fine  theme  for  romance 
writers,  a  sure  and  moving  topic  ;  but  is  there  not 
something  untender,  to  say  no  more  of  it,  in  the 
hurry  which  a  beloved  child  is  sometimes  in  to  tear 


THE   WEDDING.  143 

herself  from  the  paternal  stock,  and  commit  her- 
self to  strange  graftings  ?  The  case  is  heightened 
where  the  lady,  as  in  the  present  instance,  happens 
to  be  an  only  child.  I  do  not  understand  these 
matters  experimentally,  but  I  can  make  a  shrewd 
guess  at  the  wounded  pride  of  a  parent  upon  these 
occasions.  It  is  no  new  observation,  I  believe,  that 
a  lover  in  most  cases  has  no  rival  so  much  to  be 
feared  as  the  father.  Certainly  there  is  a  jealousy 
in  zinparallcl  subjects,  which  is  little  less  heartrend- 
ing than  the  passion  which  we  more  strictly  christen 
by  that  name.  Mothers'  scruples  are  more  easily 
got  over ;  for  this  reason,  I  suppose,  that  the  pro- 
tection transferred  to  a  husband  is  less  a  derogation 
and  a  loss  to  their  authority  than  to  the  paternal. 
Mothers,  besides,  have  a  trembling  foresight,  which 
paints  the  inconveniences  (impossible  to  be  con- 
ceived in  the  same  degree  by  the  other  parent) 
of  a  life  of  forlorn  celibacy,  which  the  refusal  of 
a  tolerable  match  may  entail  upon  their  child. 
Mothers'  instinct  is  a  surer  guide  here  than  the 
cold  reasonings  of  a  father  on  such  a  topic.  To 
this  instinct  may  be  imputed,  and  by  it  alone  may 
be  excused,  the  unbeseeming  artifices,  by  which 
some  wives  push  on  the  matrimonial  projects  of 
their  daughters,  which  the  husband,  however  ap- 
proving, shall  entertain  with  comparative  indif- 
ference. A  little  shamelessness  on  this  head  is 
pardonable.  With  this  explanation,  forwardness 
becomes  a  grace,  and  maternal  importunity  receives 
the  name  of  a  virtue. — But  the  parson  stays,  while 
I  preposterously  assume  his  office ;  I  am  preach- 
ing, while  the  bride  is  on  the  threshold. 

Nor  let  any  of  my  female  readers  suppose  that 
the  sage  reflections  which  have  just  escaped  me 
have  the  obliquest  tendency  of  application  to  the 


144  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

young  lady,  who,  it  will  be  seen,  is  about  to  ven- 
ture upon  a  change  in  her  condition,  at  a  mature 
and  compete7it  age,  and  not  without  the  fullest  ap- 
probation of  all  parties.  I  only  deprecate  very 
hasty  marriages. 

It  had  been  fixed  that  the  ceremony  should  be 
gone  through  at  an  early  hour,  to  give  time  for  a 
little  dejeune  afterwards,  to  which  a  select  party  of 
friends  had  been  invited.  We  were  in  church  a 
little  before  the  clock  struck  eight. 

Nothing  could  be  more  judicious  or  graceful  than 
the  dress  of  the  bride-maids — the  three  charming 
Miss  Foresters — on  this  morning.  To  give  the 
bride  an  opportunity  of  shining  singly,  they  had 
come  habited  all  in  green.  I  am  ill  at  describing 
female  apparel ;  but  while  she  stood  at  the  altar  in 
vestments  white  and  candid  as  her  thoughts,  a 
sacrificial  whiteness,  they  assisted  in  robes  such  as 
might  become  Diana's  nymphs — Foresters  indeed 
— as  such  who  had  not  yet  come  to  the  resolution 
of  putting  off  cold  virginity.  These  young  maids, 
not  being  so  blest  as  to  have  a  mother  living,  I  am 
told,  keep  single  for  their  father's  sake,  and  live 
altogether  so  happy  with  their  remaining  parent, 
that  the  hearts  of  their  lovers  are  ever  broken  with 
the  prospect  (so  inauspicious  to  their  hopes)  of  such 
uninterrupted  and  provoking  home-comfort.  Gal- 
lant girls !  each  a  victim  worthy  of  Iphigenia  ! 

I  do.  not  know  what  business  I  have  to  be  pre- 
sent in  solemn  places.  I  cannot  divest  me  of  an 
unseasonable  disposition  to  levity  upon  the  most 
awful  occasions.  I  was  never  cut  out  for  a  public 
functionary.  Ceremony  and  I  have  long  shaken 
hands  ;  but  I  could  not  resist  the  importunities  of 
the  young  lady's  father,  whose  gout  unhappily 
confined  him  at  home,  to  act  ai  parent  on  this  oc- 


THE  WEDDING.  i.jS 

casion,  and  give  azvay  the  bride.  Something  ludi- 
crous occurred  to  me  at  this  most  serious  of  all 
moments — a  sense  of  my  unfitness  to  have  the  dis- 
posal, even  in  imagination,  of  the  sweet  young 
creature  beside  me.  I  fear  I  was  betrayed  to  some 
lightness,  for  the  awful  eye  of  the  parson — and  the 
rector's  eye  of  Saint  Mildred's  in  the  Poultry  is 
no  trifle  of  a  rebuke — was  upon  me  in  an  instant, 
souring  my  incipient  jest  to  the  tristful  severities  of 
a  funeral. 

This  was  the  only  misbehaviour  which  I  can 
plead  to  upon  this  solemn  occasion,  unless  what 
was  objected  to  me  after  the  ceremony,  by  one  of 
the  handsome  Miss  T s,  be  accounted  a  sole- 
cism. She  was  pleased  to  say  that  she  had  never 
seen  a  gentleman  before  me  give  away  a  bride  in 
black.  Now  black  has  been  my  ordinary  apparel 
so  long — indeed,  I  take  it  to  be  the  proper  costume 
of  an  author — the  stage  sanctions  it— that  to  have 
appeared  in  some  lighter  colour  would  have  raised 
more  mirth  at  my  expense  than  the  anomaly  had 
created  censure.  But  I  could  perceive  that  the 
bride's  mother,  and  some  elderly  ladies  present 
(God  bless  them !)  would  have  been  well  content, 
if  I  had  come  in  any  other  colour  than  that.  But 
I  got  over  the  omen  by  a  lucky  apologue,  which  I 
remembered  out  of  Pilpay,  or  some  Indian  author, 
of  all  the  birds  being  invited  to  the  linnet's  wed- 
ding, at  which,  when  all  the  rest  came  in  their 
gayest  feathers,  the  raven  alone  apologized  for  his 
cloak  because  "he  had  no  other."  This  tolerably 
reconciled  the  elders.  But  with  the  young  people 
all  was  merriment,  and  shaking  of  hands,  and  con- 
gratulations, and  kissing  away  the  bride's  tears, 
and  kissing  from  her  in  return,  till  a  young  lady, 
who  assumed  some  experience  in  these  matters, 

11.  L 


146  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

having  worn  the  nuptial  bands  some  four  or  nve 
weeks  longer  than  her  friend,  rescued  her,  archly 
observing,  with  half  an  eye  upon  the  bridegroom, 
that  at  this  rate  she  would  have  "  none  left." 

My  friend  the  Admiral  was  in  fine  wig  and  buckle 
on  this  occasion — a  striking  contrast  to  his  usual 
neglect  of  personal  appearance.  He  did  not  once 
shove  up  his  borrowed  locks  (his  custom  ever  at 
his  morning  studies)  to  betray  the  few  grey  stragglers 
of  his  own  beneath  them.  He  wore  an  aspect  of 
thoughtful  satisfaction.  I  trembled  for  the  hour, 
which  at  length  approached,  when  after  a  pro- 
tracted breakfast  of  three  hours— if  stores  of  cold 
fowls,  tongues,  hams,  botargoes,  dried  fruits,  wines, 
cordials,  &c.,  can  deserve  so  meagre  an  appella- 
tion— the  coach  was  announced,  which  was  come 
to  carry  off  the  bride  and  bridegroom  for  a  season, 
as  custom  has  sensibly  ordained,  into  the  country  ; 
upon  which  design,  wishing  them  a  felicitous  jour- 
ney, let  us  return  to  the  assembled  guests. 

As  when  a  well-graced  actor  leaves  the  stage, 

The  eyes  of  men 

Are  idly  bent  on  him  that  enters  next, 

so  idly  did  we  bend  our  eyes  upon  one  another, 
when  the  chief  performers  in  the  morning's  pa- 
geant had  vanished.  None  told  his  tale.  None 
sipped  her  glass.  The  poor  Admiral  made  an  effort 
• — it  was  not  much.  I  had  anticipated  so  far. 
Even  the  infinity  of  full  satisfaction,  that  had  be- 
trayed itself  through  the  prim  looks  and  quiet  de- 
portment of  his  lady,  began  to  wane  into  some- 
thing of  misgiving.  No  one  knew  whether  to  take 
their  leave  or  stay.  We  seemed  assembled  upon  a 
silly  occasion.  In  this  crisis,  betwixt  tarrying  and 
departure,  I  must  do  justice  to  a  foolish  talent  of 


THE   WEDDING.  147 

mine,  which  had  otherwise  like  to  have  brought 
me  into  disgrace  in  the  fore-part  of  the  day;  I 
mean  a  power,  in  any  emergency,  of  thinking  and 
giving  vent  to  all  manner  of  strange  nonsense.  In 
this  awkward  dilemma  I  found  it  sovereign.  I 
rattled  off  some  of  my  most  excellent  absurdities. 
All  were  willing  to  be  relieved,  at  any  expense  of 
reason,  from  the  pressure  of  the  intolerable  vacuum 
which  had  succeeded  to  the  morning  bustle.  By 
this  means  I  was  fortunate  in  keeping  together  the 
better  part  of  the  company  to  a  late  hour  ;  and  a 
rubber  of  whist  (the  Admiral's  favourite  game) 
with  some  rare  strokes  of  chance  as  well  as  skill, 
which  came  opportunely  on  his  side — lengthened 
out  till  midnight— dismissed  the  old  gentleman  at 
last  to  his  bed  with  comparatively  easy  spirits. 

I  have  been  at  my  old  friend's  various  times 
since.  I  do  not  know  a  visiting  plage  where  every 
guest  is  so  perfectly  at  his  ease ;  nowhere,  where 
harmony  is  so  strangely  the  result  of  confusion. 
Everybody  is  at  cross  purposes,  yet  the  effect  is 
so  much  better  than  uniformity.  Contradictory 
orders ;  servants  pulling  one  way ;  master  and 
mistress  driving  some  other,  yet  both  diverse ; 
visitors  huddled  up  in  corners  ;  chairs  unsym- 
metrized  ;  candles  disposed  by  chance ;  meals  at 
odd  hours,  tea  and  supper  at  once,  or  the  latter 
preceding  the  former  ;  the  host  and  the  guest  con- 
ferring, yet  each  upon  a  different  topic,  each  under- 
standing himself,  neither  trying  to  understand  01 
hear  the  other ;  draughts  and  politics,  chess  and 
political  economy,  cards  and  conversation  on  nau- 
tical matters,  going  on  at  once,  without  the  hope,  ' 
or  indeed  the  wish,  of  distinguishing  them,  make 
it  altogether  the  most  perfect  concordia  discors 
you  shall  meet  with.     Yet  somehow  the  old  house 


i,,S  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A 

is  not  quite  what  it  should  be.  The  Admiral  still 
enjoys  his  pipe,  but  he  has  no  Miss  Emily  to  fill 
it  for  him.  The  instrument  stands  where  it  stood, 
but  she  is  gone,  whose  delicate  touch- could  some- 
times for  a  short  minute  appease  the  warring  ele- 
ments. He  has  learnt,  as  Marvel  expresses  it,  to 
"  make  his  destiny  his  choice."  He  bears  bravely 
up,  but  he  does  not  come  out  with  his  flashes  of 
wild  wit  so  thick  as  formerly.  His  sea-songs  sel- 
domer  escape  him.  His  wife,  too,  looks  as  if  she 
wanted  some  younger  body  to  scold  and  set  to 
rights.  We  all  miss  a  junior  presence.  It  is  won- 
derful how  one  young  maiden  freshens  up,  and 
keeps  green,  the  paternal  roof.  Old  and  young 
seem  to  have  an  interest  in  her,  so  long  as  she  is 
not  absolutely  disposed  of.  The  youthfulness  of 
the  house  is  flown.     Emily  is  married. 


REJOICINGS    UPON    THE    NEW 
YEAR'S    COMING    OF   AGE. 


^^f  HE  Old  Year  being  dead,  and  the  Neio 
Year  coming  of  age,  which  he  does,  by 
Calendar  Law,  as  soon  as  the  breath  is 
out  of  the  old  gentleman's  body,  nothing 
would  serve  the  young  spark  but  he  must  give  a 
dinner  upon  the  occasion,  to  which  all  the  Days  in 
the  year  were  invited.  The  Festivals,  whom  he 
deputed  as  his  servants,  were  mightily  taken  with 
the  notion.  They  had  been  engaged  time  out  of 
mind,  they  said,  in  providing  mirth  and  good  cheer 
for  mortals  below  ;  and  it  was  time  they  should 
have  a  taste  of  their  own  bounty.  It  was  stiffly 
debated  among  them  whether  the  Fasts  should  be 
admitted.  Some  said  the  appearance  of  such  lean, 
starved  guests,  with  their  mortified  faces,  would 
pervert  the  ends  of  the  meeting.  But  the  ob- 
jection was  overruled  by  Christmas  Day,  who  had 
a  design  upon  Ash  IVednesa'ay  (as  you  shall  hear), 
and  a  mighty  desire  to  see  how  the  old  Domine 
would  behave  himself  in  his  cups.  Only  the  Vigils 
were  requested  to  come  with  their  lanterns,  to  light 
the  gentlefolks  home  at  night. 

All  the  Days  came  to  their  day.     Covers  were 


i5«  LAST  JSSSAyS  OF  ^LIA. 

provided  for  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  guests  at 
the  principal  table ;  with  an  occasional  knife  and 
fork  at  the  side-board  for  the  Tiventy-ninth  of 
Febrttary. 

I  should  have  told  you  that  cards  of  invitation 
had  been  issued.  The  carriers  were  the  Hours , 
twelve  little,  merry,  whirligig  foot-pages,  as  you 
should  desire  to  see,  that  went  all  round,  and 
found  out  the  persons  invited  well  enough,  with 
the  exception  of  Easter  Day,  Shrove  luesJay,  and 
a  few  such  Movables,  who  had  lately  shifted  their 
quarters. 

Well,  they  all  met  at  last — foul  Days,  fine  Days, 
all  sorts  of  Days,  and  a  rare  din  they  made  of  it. 
There  was  nothing  but.  Hail !  fellow  Day,  well 
met — brother  Z'dj— sister  Day — only  Lady  Day 
kept  a  little  on  the  aloof,  and  seemed  somewhat 
scornfiil.  Yet  some  said  Twelfth  Day  cut  her  out 
and  out,  for  she  came  in  a  tiffany  suit,  white  and 
gold,  like  a  queen  on  a  frost-cake,  all  royal,  glit- 
tering, and  Epiphanotis.  The  rest  came,  some  in 
green,  some  in  white— but  old  Lent  and  his  family 
were  not  yet  out  of  mourning.  Rainy  Days  came 
in,  dripping ;  and  sunshiny  Days  helped  them  to 
change  their  stockings.  Weddiiig  Day  was  there 
in  his  marriage  finery,  a  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
Pay  Day  came  late,  as  he  always  does ;  and  Dooms- 
day sent  word — he  might  be  expected. 

April  Fool  (as  my  young  lord's  jester)  took  upon 
himself  to  marshal  the  guests,  and  wild  work  he 
made  with  it.  It  would  have  posed  old  Erra  Pater 
to  have  found  out  any  given  Day  in  the  year  to 
erect  a  scheme  upon — good  Days,  bad  Days,  were 
so  shuffled  together,  to  the  confounding  of  all  sober 
horoscopy. 

He  had  stuck  the  Twenty-First  of  June  next  to 


REJOJCINGS  ON  THE  NEU^  YEAR.       isx 

the  Twetity-Seco7td  of  December,  and  the  former 
looked  like  a  Maypole  siding  a  marrow-bone.  Ask 
Wednesday  got  wedged  in  (as  was  concerted)  be- 
twixt Christmas  and  Lord  Mayor's  Days.  Lord ! 
how  he  laid  about  him !  Nothing  but  barons  of 
beef  and  turkeys  would  go  down  with  him — to  the 
great  greasing  and  detriment  of  his  new  sackcloth 
bib  and  tucker.  And  still  Christmas  Day  was  at 
his  elbow,  plying  him  with  the  wassail-bovvl,  till 
he  roared,  and  hiccupp'd,  and  protested  there  was 
no  faith  in  dried  ling,  but  commended  it  to  the 
devil  for  a  sour,  windy,  acrimonious,  censorious, 
hy-po-crit-crit-critical  mess,  and  no  dish  for  a  gen- 
tleman. Then  he  dipt  his  fist  into  the  middle  of 
the  great  custard  that  stood  before  his  left-hand 
neighbour,  and  daubed  his  hungry  beard  all  over 
with  it,  till  you  would  have  taken  him  for  the  Last 
Day  in  Deceijiber,  it  so  hung  in  icicles. 

At  another  part  of  the  table,  Shrove  Tuesday 
was  helping  the  Second  of  Scptembir  to  some  cock 
Inoth, — which  courtesy  the  latter  returned  with 
the  delicate  thigh  of  a  hen  pheasant — so  that  there 
was  no  love  lost  for  that  matter.  The  Last  of  Lent 
was  spunging  upon  Shrovetide's  pancakes;  which 
April  Fool  perceiving,  told  him  that  he  did  well, 
for  pancakes  were  proper  to  a  good py-day. 

In  another  part,  a  hubbub  arose  about  the  Thir- 
tieth of  January,  who,  it  seem?,  being  a  sour, 
puritanic  character,  that  thought  nobody's  meat 
good  or  sanctified  enough  for  him,  had  smuggled 
into  the  room  a  calf's  head,  which  he  had  had 
cooked  at  home  for  that  purpose,  thinking  to  feast 
thereon  incontinently ;  but  as  it  lay  in  the  dish, 
March  Manyweathers,  who  is  a  very  fine  lady,  and 
subject  to  the  meagrims,  screamed  out  there  was 
a   "human  head  in  the  platter,"  and  raved  about 


IS2  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  EL  J  A. 

Herodias'  daughter  to  that  degree,  that  the  ob- 
noxious viand  was  obliged  to  be  removed  ;  nor 
did  she  recover  her  stomach  till  she  had  gulped 
down  a  Restorative,  confected  of  Oak  Apple,  which 
the  merry  Twenty-Ninth  of  May  always  carries 
about  with  him  for  that  purpose. 

The  King's  health'  being  called  for  after  this,  a 
notable  dispute  arose  between  the  Twelfth  of  August 
(a  zealous  old  Whig  gentlewoman)  and  the  Twcnty- 
Third  of  April  (a  new-fangled  lady  of  the  Tory 
stamp),  as  to  which  of  them  should  have  the 
honour  to  propose  it.  August  grew  hot  upon  the 
matter,  affirming  time  out  of  mind  the  prescriptive 
right  to  have  lain  with  her,  till  her  rival  had  basely 
supplanted  her;  whom  she  represented  as  little 
better  than  a  kept  mistress,  who  went  about  mfine 
clothes,  while  she  (the  legitimate  Birthday)  had 
scarcely  a  rag,  &c. 

April  Fool,  being  made  mediator,  confirmed  the 
right,  in  the  strongest  form  of  words,  to  the  appel- 
lant, but  decided  for  peace'  sake,  that  the  exercise 
of  it  should  remain  with  the  present  possessor. 
At  the  same  time,  he  slyly  rounded  the  first  lady  in 
the-ear,  that  an  action  might  lie  against  the  Crown 
for  bi-geny. 

It  beginning  to  grow  a  little  duskish.  Candlemas 
lustily  bawled  out  for  lights,  which  was  opposed 
by  all  the  Days,  who  protested  against  burning 
dayligth.  Then  fair  water  was  handed  round  in 
silver  ewers,  and  the  sairie  lady  was  observed  to 
take  an  unusual  time  in  Washing  herself. 

May  Day,  with  that  sweetness  which  is  peculiar 
to  her,  in  a  neat  speech  proposing  the  health  of 
the  founder,  crowned  her  goblet  (and  by  her  ex- 

'  King  George  IV. 


REJOICINGS  ON  THE  NEW  YEAR.       153 

ample  the  rest  of  the  company)  with  garlands. 
This  being  done,  the  lordly  Neiv  Year,  from  the 
upper  end  of  the  table,  in  a  cordial  but  somewhat 
lofty  tone,  returned  thanks.  He  felt  proud  on  an 
occasion  of  meeting  so  many  of  his  worthy  father's 
late  tenants,  promised  to  improve  their  farms,  and 
at  the  same  time  to  abate  (if  anything  was  found 
unreasonable)  in  their  rents. 

At  the  mention  of  this,  the  four  Quarter  Days 
involuntarily  looked  at  each  other,  and  smiled ; 
April  Fool  whistled  to  an  old  tune  of  "  New 
Brooms ;"  and  a  surly  old  rebel  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  table  (who  was  discovered  to  be  no  other 
than  the  Fifth  of  November)  muttered  out,  dis- 
tinctly enough  to  be  heard  by  the  whole  company, 
words  to  this  effect — that  "when  the  old  one  is 
gone,  he  is  a  fool  that  looks  for  a  better."  Which 
rudeness  of  his,  the  guests  resenting,  unanimously 
voted  his  expulsion  ;  and  the  malcontent  was  thrust 
out  neck  and  heels  into  the  cellar,  as  the  properest 
place  for  such  a  boutefeu  and  firebrand  as  he  had 
shown  himself  to  be. 

Order  being  restored — the  young  lord  (who,  to 
say  truth,  had  been  a  little  ruffled,  and  put  beside 
his  oratory)  in  as  few  and  yet  as  obliging  words  as 
possible,  assured  them  of  entire  welcome;  and, 
with  a  graceful  turn,  singling  out  poor  Tiventy- 
Ninth  of  February,  that  had  sate  all  this  while 
mumchance  at  the  side-board,  begged  to  couple 
his  health  with  that  of  the  good  company  before 
him — which  he  drank  accordingly ;  observing  that 
he  had  not  seen  his  honest  face  any  time  these  four 
years — with  a  number  of  endearing  expressions 
besides.  At  the  same  time  removing  the  solitary 
Day  from  the  forlorn  seat  which  had  been  assigned 
him,  he  stationed  him  at  his  own  board,  some- 


154  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

where  between  the  Gixek  Calends  and  Latter  Latn- 
mas. 

Ash  Wednesday,  being  now  called  upon  for  a 
song,  with  his  eyes  fast  stuck  in  his  head,  and  as 
well  as  the  Canary  he  had  swallowed  would  give 
him  leave,  struck  up  a  Carol,  which  Christmas 
Day  had  taught  him  for  the  nonce ;  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  the  latter,  who  gave  "  Miserere"  in  fine 
style,  hitting  off  the  mumping  notes  and  lengthened 
drawl  of  Old  Mortification  with  infinite  humour. 
April  Fool  swore  they  had  exchanged  conditions  ; 
but  Good  Friday  was  observed  to  look  extremely 
grave ;  and  Stniday  held  her  fan  before  her  face 
that  she  might  not  be  seen  to  smile. 

Shroze-tide,  Lord  Mayor'' s  Day,  and  April  Fool, 
next  joined  in  a  glee — 

Which  is  the  properest  day  to  drink? 

in  which  all  the  Days  chiming  in,  made  a  merry 
burden. 

They  next  fell  to  quibbles  and  conundrums. 
The  question  being  proposed,  who  had  the  greatest 
number  of  followers — the  Quarter  Days  said,  there 
could  be  no  question  as  to  that ;  for  they  had  all 
the  creditors  in  the  world  dogging  their  heels. 
But  April  Fool  gave  it  in  favour  of  the  F''orty  Days 
before  Easter ;  because  the  debtors  in  all  cases  out- 
numbered the  creditors,  and  they  kept  Lent  all  the 
year. 

All  this  while  Valentine^ s  Day  kept  courting 
pretty  May,  who  sate  next  him,  slipping  amorous 
billets-doux  under  the  table,  till  the  Dog  Days 
(who  are  naturally  of  a  warm  constitution)  began 
to  be  jealous,  and  to  bark  and  rage  exceedingly. 
April  Fool,  who  likes  a  bit  of  sport  above  measure, 
and  had  some  pretensions  to   the  lady  besides,  as 


REJOICINGS  ON  THE  NEW  YEAR.       155 

being  but  a  cousin  once  removed, — clapped  and 
halloo'd  them  on;  and  as  fast  as  their  indignation 
cooled,  those  mad  wags,  the  Ember  Days,  were  at 
it  with  their  bellows,  to  blow  it  into  a  flame ;  and 
all  was  in  ferment,  till  old  Madam  Septuagcsima 
(who  boasts  herself  the  Mother  of  the  Days)  wisely 
diverted  the  conversation  with  a  tedious  tale  of 
the  lovers  which  she  could  reckon  when  she  was 
young,  and  of  one  Master  Rogation  Day  in  par- 
ticular, who  was  for  ever  putting  the  question  to 
her ;  but  she  kept  him  at  a  distance,  as  the  chro- 
nicle would  tell — by  which  I  apprehend  she  meant 
the  Almanack.  Then  she  rambled  on  to  the 
Days  that  were  gone,  the  good  old  Days,  and  so  to 
tlie  Days  before  the  Flood — which  plainly  showed 
her  old  head  to  be  little  better  than  crazed  and 
-doited. 

Day  being  ended,  the  Days  called  for  their 
cloaks  and  great-coats,  and  took  their  leave.  Lord 
3fayor's  Day  went  off  in  a  Mist,  as  usual ;  Shortest 
Day  in  a  deep  black  Fog,  that  wrapt  the  little  gen- 
tleman all  round  like  a  hedge-hog.  Two  Vigils 
—so  watchmen  are  called  in  heaven — saw  Christ- 
mas Day  safe  home — they  had  been  used  to  the 
business  before.  Another  Vigil — a  stout,  sturdy 
patrole,  called  the  Eve  of  St.  Christopher — seeing 
Ash  Wednesday  in  a  condition  little  better  than  he 
should  be — e'en  whipt  him  over  his  shoulders, 
pick-a-back  fashion,  and  Old  Mortification  went 
floating  home  singing — 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly, 

and  a  number  of  old  snatches  besides,  between 
drunk  and  sober;  but  very  few  Aves  or  Peniten- 
tiaries (you  may  believe  me)  were  among  them. 
Longest  Day  set  off  westward  in  beautiful  crimson 


■56 


LAST  ESSAVS  OF  ELI  A 


and  gold — the  rest,  some  in  one  fashion,  some  in 
another ;  but  Valentine  and  pretty  May  took  their 
departure  together  in  one  of  the  prettiest  silvery 
twilights  a  Lover's  Dav  could  wish  to  set  in. 


OLD    CHINA. 


HAVE  an  almost  feminine  partiality 
for  old  china.  When  I  go  to  see  any 
great  house,    I   inquire   for  the   china- 

closet,  and  next  for  the  picture-gallery. 

I  cannot  defend  the  order  of  preference,  but  by 
saying  that  we  have  all  some  taste  or  other,  of  too 
ancient  a  date  to  admit  of  our  remembering  dis- 
tinctly that  it  was  an  acquired  one.  I  can  call  to 
mind  the  first  play,  and  the  first  exhibition,  that  I 
was  talten  to ;  but  I  am  not  conscious  of  a  time 
when  china  jars  and  saucers  were  introduced  into 
my  imagination. 

I  had  no  repugnance  then — why  should  I  now 
have? — to  those  little,  lawless,  azure-tinctured  gro- 
tesques, that,  under  the  notion  of  men  and  women, 
float  about,  uncircumscribed  by  any  element,  in 
that  world  before  perspective — a  china  tea-cup. 

I  like  to  see  my  old  friends — whom  distance 
cannot  diminish — figuring  up  in  the  air  (so  they 
appear  to  our  optics),  yet  on  terra  firma  still — for 
so  we  must  in  courtesy  interpret  that  speck  of 
deeper  blue,  which  the  decorous  artist,  to  prevent 
absurdity,  had  made  to  spring  up  beneath  their 
sandals. 

I  love  the  men  with  women's  faces,   and  the 


158  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

women,  if  possible,  with  still  more  womanish  ex- 
pressions. 

Here  is  a  young  and  courtly  Mandarin,  handing 
tea  to  a  lady  from  a  salver — two  miles  off.  See 
how  distance  seems  to  set  off  respect !  And  here 
the  same  lady,  or  another — for  likeness  is  identity 
on  tea-cups — is  stepping  into  a  little  fairy  boat, 
moored  on  the  hither  side  of  this  calm  garden  river, 
with  a  dainty  mincing  foot,  which  in  a  right  angle 
of  incidence  (as  angles  go  in  our  world)  must  in- 
fallibly land  her  in  the  midst  of  a  flowery  mead — 
a  furlong  off  on  the  other  side  of  the  same  strange 
stream  ! 

Farther  on — if  far  or  near  can  be  predicated  of 
their  world— see  horses,  trees,  pagodas,  dancing 
the  hays. 

Here— a  cow  and  rabbit  cou chant,  and  co -ex- 
tensive—so  objects  show,  seen  through  the  lucid 
atmosphere  of  line  Cathay. 

I  was  pointing  out  to  my  cousin  last  evening, 
over  our  Hyson  (which  we  are  old-fashioned  enough 
to  drink  unmixed  still  of  an  afternoon),  some  of 
these  speciosa  niiracula  upon  a  set  of  extraordinary 
old  blue  china  (a  recent  purchase)  which  we  were 
now  for  the  first  time  using ;  and  could  not  help 
remarking,  how  favourable  circumstances  had  been 
to  us  of  late  years,  that  we  could  afford  to  please 
the  eye  sometimes  with  trifles  of  this  sort — when  a 
passing  sentiment  seemed  to  overshade  the  brows 
of  my  companion.  I  am  quick  at  detecting  these 
summer  clouds  in  Bridget. 

"  I  wish  the  good  old  times  would  come  again," 
she  said,  "when  we  were  not  quite  so  rich.  I  do 
not  mean  that  I  want  to  be  poor  ;  but  there  was  a 
middle  state  " — so  she  was  pleased  to  ramble  on, — 
"in  which  I  am  sure  we  were  a  great  deal  happier. 


OLD  CHINA.  155 

A  purchase  is  but  a  purchase,  now  that  you  have 
money  enough  and  to  spare.  Formerly  it  used  to 
be  a  triumph.  When  we  coveted  a  cheap  luxury 
(and,  O  !  how  much  ado  I  had  to  get  you  to  con- 
sent in  those  times  !) — we  were  used  to  have  a 
debate  two  or  three  days  before,  and  to  weigh  the 
for  and  against,  and  think  what  we  might  spare  it 
out  of,  and  what  saving  we  could  hit  upon,  that 
should  be  an  equivalent.  A  thing  was  worth  buying 
then,  when  we  felt  the  money  that  we  paid  for  it. 

"Do  you  remember  the  brown  suit,  which  you 
made  to  hang  upon  you,  till  all  your  friends  cried 
shame  upon  you,  it  grew  so  threadbare — and  all 
because  of  that  folio  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  which 
you  dragged  home  late  at  night  from  Barker's  in 
Covent  Garden  ?  Do  you  remember  how  we  eyed 
it  for  weeks  before  we  could  make  up  our  minds  to 
the  purchase,  and  had  not  come  to  a  determination 
till  it  was  near  ten  o'clock  of  the  Saturday  night, 
when  you  set  off  from  Islington,  fearing  you  should 
be  too  late — and  when  the  old  bookseller  with 
some  grumbling  opened  his  shop,  and  by  the  twink- 
ling taper  (for  he  was  setting  bedwards)  lighted  out 
the  relic  from  his  dusty  treasures — and  when  you 
lugged  it  home,  wishing  it  were  twice  as  cumber- 
some— and  when  you  presented  it  to  me — and  when 
we  were  exploring  the  perfectness  of  it  [collating, 
you  called  it) — and  while  I  was  repairing  some  of 
the  loose  leaves  with  paste,  which  your  impatience 
would  not  suffer  to  be  left  till  day-break — was  there 
no  pleasure  in  being  a  poor  man?  or  can  those  neat 
black  clothes  which  you  wear  now,  and  are  so 
careful  to  keep  brushed,  since  we  have  become 
rich  arid  finical — give  you  half  the  honest  vanity 
with  which  you  flaunted  it  about  in  that  overworn 
suit — your  old  corbeau — for   four  or  five   weeks 


iCo  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

longer  than  you  should  have  done,  to  pacify  your 
conscience  for  the  mighty  sum  of  fifteen — or  sixteen 
shillings  was  it? — a  great  affair  we  thought  it  then 
— which  you  had  lavished  on  the  old  folio.  Now 
you  can  afford  to  buy  any  book  that  pleases  you, 
but  I  do  not  see  that  you  ever  bring  me  home  any 
nice  old  purchases  now. 

"When  you  came  home  with  twenty  apologies 
for  laying  out  a  less  number  of  shillings  upon  that 
print  after  Lionardo,  which  we  christened  the 
'  Lady  Blanch  ;'  when  you  looked  at  the  purchase, 
and  thought  of  the  money — and  thought  of  the 
money,  and  looked  again  at  the  picture — was  there 
no  pleasure  in  being  a  poor  man  ?  Now,  you  have 
nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  into  Colnaghi's,  and  buy 
a  wilderness  of  Lionardos.     Yet  do  you  ? 

"Then,  do  you  remember  our  pleasant  walks  to 
Enfield,  and  Potter's  bar,  and  Waltham,  when  we 
had  a  holyday— holydays  and  all  other  fun  are  gone 
now  we  are  rich — and  the  little  hand-basket  in 
which  I  used  to  deposit  our  day's  fare  of  savoury 
cold  lamb  and  salad — and  how  you  would  pry 
about  at  noon-tide  for  some  decent  house,  where 
we  might  go  in  and  produce  our  store — only  paying 
for  the  ale  that  you  must  call  for — and  speculate 
upon  the  looks  of  the  landlady,  and  whether  she 
was  likely  to  allow  us  a  tablecloth — and  wish  for 
such  another  honest  hostess  as  Izaak  Walton  has 
described  many  a  one  on  the  pleasant  banks  of  the 
Lea,  when  he  went  a-fishing — and  sometimes  they 
would  prove  obliging  enough,  and  sometimes  they 
would  look  grudgingly  upon  us — but  we  had  cheer- 
ful looks  still  for  one  another,  and  would  eat  our 
plain  food  savourily,  scarcely  grudging  Piscatorhis 
Trout  Hall  ?  Now — when  we  go  out  a  day's 
pleasuring,  which  is  seldom,    moreover,  we  ride 


OLD  CHINA.  i6i 

part  of  the  way,  and  go  into  a  fine  inn,  and  order 
the  best  of  dinners,  never  debating  the  expense — 
which,  after  all,  never  has  half  the  relish  of  those 
chance  country  snaps,  when  we  were  at  the  mercy 
of  uncertain  usage,  and  a  precarious  welcome. 

"  You  are  too  proud  to  see  a  play  anywhere  now 
but  in  the  pit.  Do  you  remember  where  it  was  we 
used  to  sit,  when  we  saw  the  battle  of  Hexham, 
and  the  Surrender  of  Calais,  and  Bannister  and 
Mrs.  Bland  in  the  Children  in  the  Wood — when 
we  squeezed  out  our  shillings  a-piece  to  sit  three 
or  four  times  in  a  season  in  the  one-shilling  galleiy 
— where  you  felt  all  the  time  that  you  ought  not  to 
have  brought  me — and  more  strongly  I  felt  obliga- 
tion to  you  for  having  brought  me — ^and  the  pleasure 
was  the  better  for  a  little  shame — and  when  the 
curtain  drew  up,  what  cared  we  for  our  place  in  the 
house  or  what  mattered  it  where  we  were  sitting, 
when  our  thoughts  were  with  Rosalind  in  Arden, 
or  with  Viola  at  the  Court  of  Illyria  ?  You  used  to 
say  that  the  Gallery  was  the  best  place  of  all  for 
enjoying  a  play  socially — that  the  relish  of  such 
exhibitions  must  be  in  proportion  to  the  infrequency 
of  going — that  the  company  we  met  there,  not 
being  in  general  readers  of  plays,  were  obliged  to 
attend  the  more,  and  did  attend,  to  what  was  going 
on,  on  the  stage — because  a  word  lost  would  have 
been  a  chasm,  which  it  was  impossible  for  them  to 
fill  up.  With  such  reflections  we  consoled  our 
pride  then— and  I  appeal  to  you  whether,  as  a 
woman,  I  met  generally  with  less  attention  and 
accommodation  than  I  have  done  since  in  more 
expensive  situations  in  the  house?  The  getting  in, 
indeed,  and  the  crowding  up  those  inconvenient 
staircases,  was  bad  enough — but  there  was  still  a 
law  of  civility  to  woman  recognized  to  quite  as  - 

II.  M 


j62  last  essays  of  elia. 

great  an  extent  as  we  ever  found  in  the  other  pas- 
sages— and  how  a  little  difficulty  overcome  heigh- 
tened the  snug  seat  and  the  play,  afterwards  !  Now 
we  can  only  pay  our  money  and  walk  in.  You 
cannot  see,  you  say,  in  the  galleries  now.  I  am 
sure  we  saw,  and  heard  too,  well  enough  then — 
but  sight,  and  all,  I  think,  is  gone  with  our  po- 
verty. 

"There  was  pleasure  in  eating  strawberries,  be- 
fore they  became  quite  common— in  the  first  dish 
of  peas,  while  they  were  yet  dear — to  have  them 
for  a  nice  supper,  a  treat.  What  treat  can  we  have 
now  ?  If  we  were  to  treat  ourselves  now — that  is, 
to  have  dainties  a  little  above  our  means,  it  would 
be  selfish  and  wicked.  It  is  the  very  little  more 
that  we  allow  ourselves  beyond  what  the  actual 
poor  can  get  at,  that  makes  what  I  call  a  treat — 
when  two  people,  living  together,  as  we  have  done, 
now  and  then  indulge  themselves  in  a  cheap  luxury, 
which  both  like ;  while  each  apologizes,  and  is 
willing  to  take  both  halves  of  the  blame  to  his 
single  share.  I  see  no  harm  in  people  making  much 
of  themselves,  in  that  sense  of  the  word.  It  may 
give  them  a  hint  how  to  make  much  of  others. 
But  now — what  I  mean  by  the  word — we  never  do 
make  much  of  ourselves.  None  but  the  poor  can 
do  it.  I  do  not  mean  the  veriest  poor  of  all,  but 
persons  as  we  Were,  just  above  poverty. 

' '  I  know  what  you  were  going  to  say,  that  it  is 
mighty  pleasant  at  the  end  of  the  year  to  make  all 
meet, — and  much  ado  we  used  to  have  every  Thirty- 
first  Night  of  December  to  account  for  our  exceed- 
ings — many  a  long  face  did  you  make  over  your 
puzzled  accounts,  and  in  contriving  to  make  it  out 
how  we  had, spent  so  much^or  that  we  had  not 
spent  so  much — or  that  it  was  impossible  we  should 


OLV  CRTN'A.  163 

spend  so  much  next  year — and  still  we  found  our 
slender  capital  decreasing— but  then, — betwixt 
ways,  and  projects,  and  compromises  of  one  sort 
or  another,  and  talk  of  curtailing  this  charge,  and 
doing  without  that  for  the  future — and  the  hope 
that  youth  brings,  and  laughing  spirits  (in  which 
you  were  never  poor  till  now),  we  pocketed  up  our 
loss,  and  in  conclusion,  with  '  lusty  brimmers '  (as 
you  used  to  quote  it  out  of  hearty  cheerful  Mr. 
Cotton,  as  you  called  him),  we  used  to  welcome  in 
the  '  coming  guest.'  Now  we  have  no  reckoning 
at  all  at  the  end  of  the  old  year — no  flattering  pro- 
mises about  the  new  year  doing  better  for  us." 

Bridget  is  so  sparing  of  her  speech  on  most  oc- 
casions, that  when  she  gets  into  a  rhetorical  vein, 
I  am  careful  how  I  interrupt  it.  I  could  not  help, 
however,  smiling  at  the  phantom  of  wealth  which 
her  dear  imagination  had  conjured  up  out  of  a  clear 

income  of  poor hundred  pounds  a  year.     "  It 

is  true  we  were  happier  when  we  were  poorer,  but 
we  were  also  younger,  my  cousin.  I  am  afraid  we 
must  put  up  with  the  excess,  for  if  we  were  to  shake 
the  superilux  into  the  sea,  we  should  not  much 
mend  ourselves.  That  we  had  much  to  struggle 
with,  as  we  grew  up  together,  we  have  reason  to  be 
most  thankful.  It  strengthened  and  knit  our  com- 
pact closer.  We  could  never  have  been  what  we 
have  been  to  each  other,  if  we  had  always  had  the 
sufficiency  which  you  now  complain  of  The  re- 
sisting power — those  natural  dilations  of  the  youth- 
ful spirit,  which  circumstances  cannot  straiten — 
with  us  are  long  since  passed  away.  Competence 
to  age  is  supplementary  youth,  a  sorry  supplement 
indeed,  but  I  fear  the  best  that  is  to  be  had.  We 
must  ride  where  we  formerly  walked  :  live  better 
and  lie  softer — and  shall  be  wise  to  do  so — than  we 


.6+  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA. 

had  means  to  do  in  those  good  old  days  you  speak 
of.  Yet  could  those  days  return — could  you  and  I 
once  more  walk  our  thu-ty  miles  a  day — could  Ban- 
nister and  Mrs.  Bland  again  be  young,  and  you  and 
I  be  young  to  see  them — could  the  good  old  one- 
shilling  gallery  days  return — they  are  dreams,  my 
cousin,  now— but  could  you  and  I  at  this  moment, 
instead  of  this  quiet  argument,  by  our  well-carpeted 
fireside,  sitting  on  this  luxurious  sofa — be  once 
more  struggling  up  those  inconvenient  staircases, 
pushed  about,  and  squeezed,  and  elbowed  by  the 
poorest  rabble  of  poor  gallery  scramblers — could  I 
once  more  hear  those  anxious  shrieks  of  yours — and 
the  delicious  Thank  God,  we  are  safe,  which  always 
followed  when  the  topmost  stair,  conquered,  let  in 
the  first  light  of  the  whole  cheerful  theatre  down 
beneath  us — I  know  not  the  fathom  line  that  ever 
touched  a  descent  so  deep  as  I  would  be  willing  to 
bury  more  wealth  in  than  Croesus  had,  or  the  great 

Jew  R is  supposed  to  have,   to  purchase  it. 

And  now  do  just  look  at  that  merry  little  Chinese 
waiter  holding  an  umbrella,  big  enough  for  a  bed- 
tester,  over  the  head  of  that  pretty  insipid  half 
Madonna-ish  chit  of  a  lady  in  that  very  blue  sum- 
mer-house." 


THE  CHILD  ANGEL;  A  DREAM. 


CHANCED  upon  the  prettiest,  oddest, 
fantastical  thing  of  a  dream  the  other 
night,  that  you  shall  hear  of.  I  had 
been  reading  the  "Loves  of  the  Angels," 
and  went  to  bed  with  my  head  full  of  speculations, 
suggested  by  that  extraordinary  legend.  It  had 
given  birth  to  innumerable  conjectures  ;  and,  I  re- 
member the  last  waking  thought,  which  I  gave  ex- 
pression to  on  my  pillow,  was  a  sort  of  wonder, 
"  what  could  come  of  it." 

I  was  suddenly  transported,  how  or  whither  I 
could  scarcely  made  out^but  to  some  celestial 
region.  It  was  not  the  real  heavens  neither — not 
the  downright  Bible  heaven— but  a  kind  of  fairy- 
land heaven,  about  which  a  poor  human  fancy 
may  have  leave  to  sport  and  air  itself,  I  will  hope, 
without  presumption. 

Alethought — what  wild  things  dreams  are  !  — I 
was  present — at  what  would  you  imagine? — at  an 
angel's  gossiping. 

Whence  it  came,  or  how  it  came,  or  who  bid  it 
come,  or  whether  it  came  purely  of  its  own  head, 
neither  you  nor  I  know — but  there  lay,  sure  enough, 
wrapt  in  its  little  cloudy  swaddling-bands— a  Child 
Ansel. 


i66  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

Sun-threads — filmy  beams — ran  through  the  ce- 
lestial napery  of  what  seemed  its  princely  cradle. 
All  the  winged  orders  hovered  round,  watching 
when  the  new  bom  should  open  its  yet  closed  eyes ; 
which,  when  it  did,  first  one,  and  then  the  other — 
with  a  solicitude  and  apprehension,  yet  not  such 
as,  stained  with  fear,  dim  the  expanding  eyelids  of 
mortal  infants,  but  as  if  to  explore  its  path  in  those 
its  unhereditary  palaces— what  an  inextinguishable 
titter  that  time  spared  not  celestial  visages  !  Nor 
wanted  there  to  my  seeming — O,  the  inexplicable 
simpleness  of  dreams  !  —  bowls  of  that  cheering 
nectar, 

—  which  mortals  catcdht  call  below. 

Nor  vt'ere  wanting  faces  of  female  ministrants, — 
stricken  in  years,  as  it  might  seem, — so  dexterous 
were  those  heavenly  attendants  to  counterfeit 
kindly  similitudes  of  earth,  to  greet  with  terrestrial 
child-rites  the  young  present,  which  earth  had  made 
to  heaven. 

Then  were  celestial  harpings  heard,  not  in  full 
symphony,  as  those  by  which  the  spheres  are 
tutored  ;  but,  as  loudest  instruments  on  earth  speak 
oftentimes,  muffled  ;  so  to  accommodate  their 
sound  the  better  to  the  weak  ears  of  the  imperfect- 
born.  And,  with  the  noise  of  these  subdued 
soundings,  the  Angelet  sprang  forth,  fluttering  its 
rudiments  of  pinions— but  forthwith  flagged  and 
was  recovered  into  the  arms  of  those  full-winged 
angels.  And  a  wonder  it  was  to  see  how,  as  years 
went  round  in  heaven — a  year  in  dreams  is  as  a 
day— continually  its  white  shoulders  put  forth  buds 
of  wings,  but  wanting  the  perfect  angelic  nutri- 
ment, anon  was  shorn  of  its  aspiring,  and  fell  flut- 
tering— still  caught  by  angel  hands,  for  ever  to  put 


THE  CHILD  ANGEL.  i6j 

forth  shoots,  and  to  fall  fluttering,  because  its  birth 
was  not  of  the  unmixed  vigour  of  heaven. 

And  a  name  was  given  to  the  Babe  Angel,  and 
it  was  to  be  called  Ge- Urania,  because  its  produc- 
tion was  of  earth  and  heaven. 

And  it  could  not  taste  of  death,  by  reason  of  its 
adoption  into  immortal  palaces ;  but  it  was  to 
know  weakness,  and  reliance,  and  the  shadow  of 
liuman  imbecility  ;  and  it  went  with  a  lame  gait  ; 
but  in  its  goings  it  exceeded  all  mortal  children  in 
grace  and  swiftness.  Then  pity  first  sprang  up  in 
angelic  bosoms  ;  and  yearnings  (like  the  human) 
touched  them  at  the  sight  of  the  immortal  lame  one. 

And  with  pain  did  then  first  those  Intuitive  Es- 
sences, with  pain  and  strife  to  their  natures  (not 
grief),  put  back  their  bright  intelligences,  ajid  re- 
duce their  ethereal  minds,  schooling  them  to  de- 
grees and  slower  processes,  so  to  adapt  their  lessons 
to  the  gradual  illumination  (as  must  needs  be)  of 
the  half-earth-bom  ;  and  what  intuitive  notices  they 
could  not  repel  (by  reason  that  their  nature  is,  to 
know  all  things  at  once)  the  half-heavenly  novice, 
by  the  better  part  of  its  nature,  aspired  to  receive 
into  its  understanding  ;  so  that  Humility  and  As- 
piration went  on  even-paced  in  the  instruction  of 
the  glorious  Amphibium. 

But,  by  reason  that  Mature  Humanity  is  too 
gross  to  breathe  the  air  of  that  super-subtile  region, 
its  portion  was,  and  is,  to  be  a  child  for  ever. 

And  because  the  human  part  of  it  might  not 
press  into  the  heart  and  inwards  of  the  palace  of 
its  adoption,  those  full-natured  angels  tended  it  by 
turns  in  the  purlieus  of  the  palace,  where  were 
shady  groves  and  rivulets,  like  this  green  earth  from 
which  it  came  ;  so  Love,  with  Voluntary  Humility, 
waited  upon  the  entertainment  of  the  new-adopted 


i68  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

And  myriads  of  years  rolled  round  (in  dreams 
Time  is  nothing),  and  still  it  kept,  and  is  to  keep, 
perpetual  childhood,  and  is  the  Tutelar  Genius  of 
Childhood  upon  earth,  and  still  goes  lame  and 
lovely. 

By  the  banks  of  the  river  Pison  is  seen,  lone  sit- 
ting by  the  grave  of  the  terrestrial  Adah,  whom 
'the  angel  Nadir  loved,  a  Child  ;  but  not  the  same 
which  I  saw  in  heaven.  A  mournful  hue  overcasts 
its  lineaments  ;  nevertheless,  a  correspondency  is 
between  the  child  by  the  grave,  and  that  celestial 
orphan,  whom  I  saw  above  ;  and  the  dimness  of 
the  grief  upon  the  heavenly,  is  a  shadow  or  emblem 
of  that  which  stains  the  beauty  of  the  terrestrial. 
And  this  correspondency  is  not  to  be  understood 
but  by  dreams. 

And  in  the  archives  of  heaven  I  had  grace  to 
read,  how  that  once  the  angel  Nadir,  being  exiled 
from  his  place  for  mortal  passion,  upspringing  on 
the  wings  of  parental  love  (such  power  had  parental 
love  for  a  moment  to  suspend  the  else-irrevocable 
law)  appeared  for  a  brief  instant  in  his  station, 
and,  depositing  a  wondrous  Birth,  straightway  dis- 
appeared, and  the  palaces  knew  him  no  more. 
And  this  charge  was  the  self-same  Babe,  who 
goeth  lame  and  lovely — but  Adah  sleepeth  by  the 
river  Pison. 


CONFESSIONS   OF  A  DRUNKARD. 


;  EHORTATIONS  from  the  use  of  strong 
liquors  have  been  the  favourite  topic  of 
sober  declaimers  in  all  ages,  and  have 
been  received  with  abundance  of  ap- 
plause by  water-drinking  critics.  But  with  the 
patient  himself,  the  man  that  is  to  be  cured,  unfor- 
tunately their  sound  has  seldom  prevailed.  Yet  the 
evil  is  acknowledged,  the  remedy  simple.  Abstain. 
No  force  can  oblige  a  man  to  raise  the  glass  to  his 
head  against  his  will.  'Tis  as  easy  as  not  to  steal, 
not  to  tell  lies. 

Alas  !  the  hand  to  pilfer,  and  the  tongue  to  bear 
false  witness,  have  no  constitutional  tendency. 
These  are  actions  indifferent  to  them.  At  the  first 
instance  of  the  reformed  will,  they  can  be  brought 
off  without  a  murmur.  The  itching  finger  is  but  a 
figure  in  speech,  and  the  tongue  of  the  liar  can 
with  the  same  natural  delight  give  forth  useful 
truths  with  which  it  has  been  accustomed  to  scatter 
their  pernicious  contraries.     But  when  a  man  has 

commenced  sot 

O  pause,  thou  sturdy  moralist,  thou  person  of 
stout  nerves  and  a  strong  head,  whose  liver  is  hap- 
pily untouched,  and  ere  thy  gorge  riseth  at  the 
iia?)ie  which  I   had  written,  first  learn  what  the 


I70  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

thing  is  ;  how  much  of  compassion,  how  much  of 
human  allowance,  thou  mayest  virtuously  mingle 
with  thy  disapprobation.  Trample  not  on  the 
ruins  of  a  man.  Exact  not,  under  so  terrible  a 
penalty  as  infamy,  a  resuscitation  from  a  state  of 
death  almost  as  real  as  that  from  which  Lazarus 
rose  not  but  by  a  miracle. 

Begin  a  reformation,  and  custom  will  make  it 
easy.  But  what  if  the  beginning  be  dreadful,  the 
first  steps  not  like  climbing  a  mountain  but  going 
through  fire?  what  if  the  whole  system  must 
undergo  a  change  violent  as  that  which  we  conceive 
of  the  mutation  of  form  in  some  insects  ?  what  if  a 
process  comparable  to  flaying  alive  be  to  be  gone 
through  ?  is  the  weakness  that  sinks  under  such 
struggles  to  be  confounded  with  the  pertinacity 
which  clings  to  other  vices,  which  have  induced  no 
constitutional  necessity,  no  engagement  of  the 
whole  victim,  body  and  soul  ? 

I  have  known  one  in  that  state,  when  he  has 
tried  to  abstain  but  for  one  evening, — though  the 
poisonous  potion  had  long  ceased  to  bring  back  its 
first  enchantments,  though  he  was  sure  it  would 
rather  deepen  his  gloom  than  brighten  it, — in  the 
violence  of  the  struggle,  and  the  necessity  he  had 
felt  of  getting  rid  of  the  present  sensation  at  any 
rate,  I  have  known  him  to  scream  out,  to  cry 
aloud,  for  the  anguish  and  pain  of  the  strife  within 
him. 

Why  should  I  hesitate  to  declare,  that  the  man 
of  whom  I  speak  is  myself?  I  have  no  puling 
apology  to  make  to  mankind.  I  see  them  all  in 
one  way  or  another  deviating  from  the  pure  reason. 
It  is  to  my  own  nature  alone  I  am  accountable  for 
the  woe  that  I  have  brought  upon  it. 

I   believe   that  there  are   constitutions,   robust 


CONF£SSIONS  OF  A   DRUNKARD.        171 

heads  and  iron  insides,  whom  scarce  any  excesses 
can  hurt ;  whom  brandy  (I  have  seen  them  drink 
it  like  wine),  at  all  events  whom  wine,  taken  in 
ever  so  plentiful  a  measure,  can  do  no  worse  injury 
to  than  just  to  muddle  their  faculties,  perhaps 
never  very  pellucid.  On  them  this  discourse  is 
wasted.  They  would  but  laugh  at  a  weak  brother, 
who,  trying  his  strength  with  them,  and  coming  off 
foiled  from  the  contest,  would  fain  persuade  them 
that  such  agonistic  exercises  are  dangerous.  It  is 
to  a  very  different  description  of  persons  I  speak. 
It  is  to  the  weak — the  nervous  ;  to  those  who  feel 
the  want  of  some  artificial  aid  to  raise  their  spirits 
in  society  to  what  is  no  more  than  the  ordinary 
pitch  of  all  around  them  without  it.  This  is  the 
secret  of  our  drinking.  Such  must  fly  the  con- 
vivial board  in  the  first  instance,  if  they  do  not 
mean  to  sell  themselves  for  term  of  life. 

Twelve  years  ago  I  had  completed  my  six-and- 
twentieth  year.  I  had  lived  from  the  period  of 
leaving  school  to  that  time  pretty  much  in  solitude. 
My  companions  were  chiefly  books,  or  at  most  one 
or  two  living  ones  of  my  own  book-loving  and 
sober  stamp.  I  rose  early,  went  to  bed  betimes, 
and  the  faculties  which  God  had  given  me,  I  have 
reason  to  think,  did  not  rust  in  me  unused. 

About  that  time  I  fell  in  with  some  companions 
of  a  difTerent  order.  They  were  men  of  boisterous 
spirits,  sitters  up  a-nights,  disputants,  drunken  ; 
yet  seemed  to  have  something  noble  about  them. 
We  dealt  about  the  wit,  or  what  passes  for  it  after 
midnight,  jovially.  Of  the  quality  called  fancy  I 
certainly  possessed  a  larger  share  than  my  com- 
panions. Encouraged  by  their  applause,  I  set  up 
for  a  professed  joker  !  I,  who  of  all  men  am  least 
fitted  for  such  an  occupation,  having,  in  addition 


172  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

to  the  greatest  difficulty  which  I  experience  at  all 
times  of  finding  words  to  express  my  meaning,  a 
natural  nervous  impediment  in  my  speech ! 

Reader,  if  you  are  gifted  with  nerves  like  mine, 
aspire  to  any  character  but  that  of  a  wit.  When 
you  find  a  tickling  relish  upon  your  tongue  dispos- 
ing you  to  that  sort  of  conversation,  especially  if 
you  find  a  preternatural  flow  of  ideas  setting  in 
upon  you  at  the  sight  of  a  bottle  and  fresh  glasses, 
avoid  giving  way  to  it  as  you  would  fly  your 
greatest  destruction.  If  you  cannot  crush  the  power 
of  fancy,  or  that  within  you  which  you  mistake  for 
such,  divert  it,  give  it  some  other  play.  Write  an 
essay,  pen  a  character  or  description, — but  not  as 
I  do  now,  with  tears  trickling  down  your  cheeks. 

To  be  an  object  of  compassion  to  friends,  of  de- 
rision to  foes  ;  to  be  suspected  by  strangers,  stared 
at  by  fools  ;  to  be  esteemed  dull  when  you  cannot 
be  witty,  to  be  applauded  for  witty  when  you  know 
that  you  have  been  dull ;  to  be  called  upon  for  the 
extemporaneous  exercise  of  that  faculty  which  no 
premeditation  can  give  ;  to  be  stirred  on  to  efforts, 
which  end  in  contempt  ;  to  be  set  on  to  provoke 
mirth  which  procures  the  procurer  hatred  ;  to  give 
pleasure  and  be  paid  with  squinting  malice  ;  to 
swallow  draughts  of  life-destroying  wine  which  are 
to  be  distilled  into  airy  breath  to  tickle  vain  au- 
ditors ;  to  mortgage  miserable  morrows  for  nights 
of  madness  ;  to  waste  whole  seas  of  time  upon  those 
M'ho  pay  it  back  in  little  inconsiderable  drops  of 
grudging  applause, — are  the  wages  of  buffoonery 
and  death. 

Time,  which  has  a  sure  stroke  at  dissolving  all 
connections  which  have  no  solider  fastening  than 
this  liquid  cement,  more  kind  to  me  than  my  own 
taste  or  penetration,  at  length  opened  my  eyes  to 


CO.VFESSIONS  OF  A   DRUNKARD.         173 

the  supposed  qualities  of  my  first  friends.  No 
trace  of  them  is  left  but  in  the  vices  which  they 
introduced,  and  the  habits  they  infixed.  In  them 
my  friends  survive  still,  and  exercise  ample  retri- 
bution for  any  supposed  infidelity  that  I  may  have 
been  guilty  of  towards  them. 

My  next  more  immediate  companions  were  and 
are  persons  of  such  intrinsic  and  felt  worth,  that 
though  accidentally  their  acquaintance  has  proved 
pernicious  to  me,  I  do  not  know  that  if  the  thing 
were  to  do  over  again,  I  should  have  the  courage 
to  eschew  the  mischief  at  the  price  of  forfeiting  the 
benefit.  I  came  to  them  reeking  from  the  steams 
of  my  late  over-heated  notions  of  companionship  ; 
and  tlie  slightest  fuel  which  they  unconsciously 
afforded,  was  sufficient  to  feed  my  own  fires  into  a 
propensity. 

They  were  no  drinkers  ;  but,  one  from  profes- 
sional habits,  and  another  from  a  custom  derived 
from  his  father,  smoked  tobacco.  The  devil  could 
not  have  devised  a  more  subtle  trap  to  re-take  a 
backsliding  penitent.  The  transition,  from  gulp- 
ing down  draughts  of  liquid  fire  to  puffing  out  in- 
nocuous blasts  of  dry  smoke,  was  so  like  cheating 
him.  But  he  is  too  hard  for  us  when  we  hope  to 
commute.  He  beats  us  at  barter ;  and  when  we 
think  to  set  off  a  new  failing  against  an  old  in- 
firmity, 'tis  odds  but  he  puts  the  trick  upon  us  of 
two  for  one.  That  (comparatively)  white  devil  of 
tobacco  brought  with  him  in  the  end  seven  worse 
than  himself. 

It  were  impertinent  to  carry  the  reader  through 
all  the  processes  by  which,  from  smoking  at  first 
with  malt  liquor,  1  took  my  degrees  through  thin 
wines,  through  stronger  wine  and  water,  through 
small  punch,  to  those  juggling  compositions,  which, 


174  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

under  the  name  of  mixed  liquors,  slur  a  great  deal 
of  brandy  or  other  poison  under  less  and  less  water 
continually  until  they  come  next  to  none,  and  so 
to  none  at  all.  But  it  is  hateful  to  disclose  the 
secrets  of  my  Tartarus. 

I  should  repel  my  readers,  from  a  mere  inca- 
pacity of  believing  me,  were  I  to  tell  them  what 
tobacco  has  been  to  me,  the  drudging  service  which 
I  have  paid,  the  slavery  which  I  have  vowed  to  it. 
How,  when  I  have  resolved  to  quit  it,  a  feeling  as 
of  ingratitude  has  started  up  ;  how  it  has  put  on 
personal  claims  and  made  the  demands  of  a  friend 
upon  me.  How  the  reading  of  it  casually  in  a  book, 
as  where  Adams  takes  his  whiff  in  the  chimney- 
comer  of  some  inn  in  Joseph  Andrews,  or  Piscator 
in  the  Complete  Angler,  breaks  his  fast  upon  a 
morning  pipe  in  that  delicate  room  Piscatoribui 
Sacrum,  has  in  a  moment  broken  down  the  resis- 
tance of  weeks.  How  a  pipe  was  ever  in  my  mid- 
night path  before  me,  till  the  vision  forced  me  to 
realize  it, — how  then  its  ascending  vapours  curled, 
its  fragrance  lulled,  and  the  thousand  delicious 
ministerings  conversant  about  it,  employing  every 
faculty,  extracted  the  sense  of  pain.  How  from 
illuminating  it  came  to  darken,  from  a  quick  solace 
it  turned  to  a  negative  relief,  thence  to  a  restless- 
ness and  dissatisfaction,  thence  to  a  positive  misery. 
How,  even  now,  when  the  whole  secret  stands 
confessed  in  all  its  dreadful  truth  before  me,  I  feel 
myself  linked  to  it  beyond  the  power  of  revocation. 
Bone  of  my  bone 

Persons  not  accustomed  to  examine  the  motives 
of  their  actions,  to  reckon  up  the  countless  nails 
that  rivet  the  chains  of  habit,  or  perhaps  being 
bound  by  none  so  obdurate  as  those  I  have  con- 
fessed to,  may  recoil  from  this  as  from  an  over- 


CONF£SS/OJ\rS  OF  A   DRUNKARD.         175 

charged  picture.  But  what  short  of  such  a  bondage 
is  it,  which  in  spite  of  protesting  friends,  a  weep- 
ing wife,  and  a  reprobating  world,  chains  down 
many  a  poor  fellow,  of  no  original  indisposition  to 
goodness,  to  his  pipe  and  his  pot  ? 

I  have  seen  a  print  after  Correggio,  in  which 
three  female  figures  are  ministering  to  a  man  who 
sits  fast  bound  at  the  root  of  a  tree.  Sensuality  is 
soothing  him.  Evil  Habit  is  nailing  him  to  a  branch, 
and  Repugnance  at  the  same  instant  of  time,  is 
applying  a  snake  to  his  side.  In  his  face  is  feeble 
delight,  the  recollection  of  past  rather  than  per- 
ception of  present  pleasures,  languid  enjoyment 
of  evil  with  utter  imbecility  to  good,  a  Sybaritic 
effeminacy,  a  submission  to  bondage,  the  springs 
of  the  will  gone  down  like  a  broken  clock,  the  sin 
and  the  suffering  co-instantaneous,  or  the  latter 
forerunning  the  former,  remorse  preceding  action 
— all  this  represented  in  one  point  of  time. — When 
I  saw  this,  I  admired  the  wonderful  skill  of  the 
painter.  But  when  I  went  away,  I  wept,  because 
I  thought  of  my  own  condition. 

Of  that  there  is  no  hope  that  it  should  ever 
change.  The  waters  have  gone  over  me.  But  out 
of  the  black  depths,  could  I  be  heard,  I  would  cry 
out  to  all  those  who  have  but  set  a  foot  in  the 
perilous  flood.  Could  the  youth,  to  whom  the 
flavour  of  his  first  wine  is  delicious  as  the  opening 
scenes  of  life  or  the  entering  upon  some  newly- 
discovered  paradise,  look  into  my  desolation,  and 
be  made  to  understand  what  a  dreary  thing  it  is 
when  a  man  shall  feel  himself  going  down  a  pre- 
cipice with  open  eyes  and  a  passive  will, — to  see 
his  destruction  and  have  no  power  to  stop  it,  and 
yet  to  feel  it  all  the  way  emanating  from  himself ; 
to  perceive  all  goodness  emptied  out  of  him,  and 


175  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

yet  not  to  be  able  to  forget  a  time  when  it  was 
otherwise ;  to  bear  about  the  piteous  spectacle  of 
his  own  self-ruins : — could  he  see  my  fevered  eye, 
feverish  with  last  night's  drinking,  and  feverishly 
looking  for  this  night's  repetition  of  the  folly  ; 
could  he  feel  the  body  of  the  death  out  of  which  I 
cry  hourly  with  feebler  and  feebler  outcry  to  be 
delivered, — it  were  enough  to  make  him  dash  the 
sparkling  beverage  to  the  earth  in  all  the  pride  of 
its  mantling  temptation  ;  to  make  him  clasp  his 
teeth, 

and  not  undo  'em 
To  suffer  WET  damnation  to  run  thro'  'em. 

Vea,  but  (methinks  I  hear  somebody  object)  if 
sobriety  be  that  fine  thing  you  would  have  us  to 
understand,  if  the  comforts  of  a  cool  brain  are  to 
be  preferred  to  that  state  of  heated  excitement 
which  you  describe  and  deplore,  what  hinders  in 
your  instance  that  you  do  not  return  to  those 
habits  from  which  you  would  induce  others  never 
to  swerve?  if  the  blessing  be  worth  preserving,  is 
it  not  worth  recovering? 

Recovering! — O  if  a  wish  could  transport  me 
back  to  those  days  of  youth,  when  a  draught  from 
the  next  clear  spring  could  slake  any  heats  which 
summer  suns  and  youthful  exercise  had  power  to 
stir  up  in  the  blood,  how  gladly  would  I  return  to 
thee,  pure  element,  the  drink  of  children  and  of 
child-like  holy  hermit !  In  my  dreams  I  can  some- 
times fancy  thy  cool  refreshment  purling  over  my 
burning  tongue.  But  my  waking  stomach  rejects 
it.  That  which  refreshes  innocence  only  makes  me 
sick  and  faint. 

But  is  there  no  middle  way  betwixt  total  absti- 
nence and  the  excess  which  kills  you  ? — For  your 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A   DRUNKARD.         17; 

sake,  reader,  and  that  you  may  never  attain  to  my 
experience,  with  pain  I  must  utter  the  dreadful 
truth,  that  there  is  none,  none  that  I  can  find.  In 
my  stage  of  liabit,  (I  speak  not  of  habits  less  con- 
finned — for  some  of  them  I  believe  the  advice  to 
be  most  prudential)  in  the  stage  whicli  I  have 
reached,  to  stop  short  of  that  measure  which  is 
sufficient  to  draw  on  torpor  and  sleep,  the  be- 
numbing apoplectic  sleep  of  the  drunkard,  is  to 
have  taken  none  at  all.  The  pain  of  the  self-de- 
nial is  all  one.  And  what  that  is,  I  had  rather  the 
reader  should  believe  on  my  credit,  than  know 
from  his  own  trial.  He  will  come  to  know  it, 
whenever  he  shall  arrive  in  that  state  in  which, 
paradoxical  as  it  may  appear,  reason  shall  only  visit 
him  through  intoxication ;  for  it  is  a  fearful  truth, 
that  the  intellectual  faculties  by  repeated  acts  of 
intemperance  may  be  driven  from  their  orderly 
sphere  of  action,  their  clear  daylight  ministeries, 
until  they  shall  be  brought  at  last  to  depend,  for 
the  faint  manifestation  of  their  departing  energies, 
upon  the  returning  periods  of  the  fatal  madness 
to  which  they  owe  their  devastation.  The  drink- 
ing man  is  never  less  himself  than  during  his  sober 
intervals.     Evil  is  so  far  his  good.' 

Behold  me  then,  in  the  robust  period  of  life,  re- 
duced to  imbecility  and  decay.  Hear  me  count 
my  gains,  and  the  profits  which  I  have  derived 
from  the  midnight  cup. 


'  When  poor  M painted  his  last  picture,  with  a  pencil 

in  one  trembling  hand,  and  a  glass  of  brandy  and  water  in 
the  other,  his  fingers  owed  the  comparative  steadiness  with 
which  they  were  enabled  to  go  through  their  task  in  an 
imperfect  manner,  to  a  temporary  firmness  derived  from  a 
repetition  of  practices,  the  general  effect  of  which  had 
shaken  both  them  and  him  so  terribly. 
II  N 


ijS  LAST  ESSAVS   OF  ELI  A. 

Twelve  years  ago,  I  was  possessed  of  a  healthy 
frame  of  mind  and  body.  I  was  never  strong,  but 
I  think  my  constitution  (for  a  weak  one)  was  as 
happily  exempt  from  the  tendency  to  any  malady 
as  it  was  possible  to  be.  I  scarce  knew  what  it 
was  to  ail  anything.  Now,  except  when  I  am 
losing  myself  in  a  sea  of  drink,  I  am  never  free 
from  those  uneasy  sensations  in  head  and  stomach, 
which  are  so  much  worse  to  bear  than  any  definite 
pains  or  aches. 

At  that  time  I  was  seldom  in  bed  after  six  in  the 
morning,  summer  and  winter.  I  awoke  refreshed, 
and  seldom  without  some  merry  thoughts  in  my 
head,  or  some  piece  of  a  song  to  welcome  the  new- 
born day.  Now,  the  first  feeling  which  besets  me, 
after  stretching  out  the  hours  of  recumbence  to 
their  last  possible  extent,  is  a  forecast  of  the  weari- 
some day  that  lies  before  me,  with  a  secret  wish 
that  I  could  have  lain  on  still,  or  never  awaked. 

Life  itself,  my  waking  life,  has  much  of  the  con- 
fusion, the  trouble,  and  obscure  perplexity,  of  an 
ill  dream.  In  the  day-time  I  stumble  upon  dark 
mountains. 

Business,  which,  though  never  very  particularly 
adapted  to  my  nature,  yet  as  something  of  necessity 
to  be  gone  through,  and  therefore  best  undertaken 
with  cheerfulness,  I  used  to  enter  upon  with  some 
degree  of  alacrity;  now  wearies,  affrights,  perplexes 
me.  I  fancy  all  sorts  of  discouragements,  and  am 
ready  to  give  up  an  occupation  which  gives  me 
bread,  from  a  harassing  conceit  of  incapacity.  The 
slightest  commission  given  me  by  a  friend,  or  any 
small  duty  which  I  have  to  perfonn  for  myself,  as 
giving  orders  to  a  tradesman,  &c.,  haunts  me  as  a 
labour  impossible  to  be  got  through.  So  much 
the  springs  of  action  are  broken. 


CONFESS  10. VS  OF  A   DRUXKARD.         jyg 

The  same  cowardice  attends  me  in  all  my  inter- 
course with  mankind.  I  dare  not  promise  that  a 
friend's  honour,  or  his  cause,  would  be  safe  in  my 
keeping,  if  I  were  put  to  the  expense  of  any  manly 
resolution  in  defending  it.  So  much  the  springs 
of  moral  action  are  deadened  within  me. 

My  favourite  occupations  in  times  past  now 
cease  to  entertain.  I  can  do  nothing  readily. 
Application  for  ever  so  short  a  time  kills  me.  This 
poor  abstract  of  my  condition  was  penned  at  long 
intervals,  with  scarcely  an  attempt  at  connection 
of  thought,  which  is  now  difficult  to  me. 

The  noble  passages  which  formerly  delighted 
me  in  history  or  poetic  fiction  now  only  draw  a  few 
tears,  allied  to  dotage.  My  broken  and  dispirited 
nature  seems  to  sink  before  anything  great  and  ad- 
mirable. 

I  perpetually  catch  myself  in  tears,  for  any  cause, 
or  none.  It  is  inexpressible  how  much  this  in- 
firmity adds  to  a  sense  of  shame,  and  a  general 
feeling  of  deterioration. 

These  are  some  of  the  instances,  concerning 
which  I  can  say  with  truth,  that  it  was  not  always 
so  with  me. 

Shall  I  lift  up  the  veil  of  my  weakness  any 
further  ? — or  is  this  disclosure  sufficient  ? 

I  am  a  poor  nameless  egotist,  who  have  no  vanity 
to  consult  by  these  Confessions.  I  know  not 
whether  I  shall  be  laughed  at,  or  heard  seriously. 
Such  as  they  are,  I  commend  them  to  the  reader's 
attention,  if  he  find  his  own  case  any  way  touched. 
I  have  told  him  what  I  am  come  to.  Let  him 
stop  in  time. 


POPULAR   FALLACIES. 


I. — THAT  A  BULLY  IS  ALWAYS  A  COWARD. 


(HIS  axiom  contains  a  principle  of  com- 
pensation, wliich  disposes  us  to  admit 
the  truth  of  it.  But  there  is  no  safe 
trusting  to  dictionaries  and  definitions. 
We  should  more  willingly  fall  in  with  this  popular 
language,  if  we  did  not  find  brutality  sometimes 
awkwardly  coupled  with  valour  in  the  same  vo- 
cabulary. The  comic  writers,  with  their  poetical 
justice,  have  contributed  not  a  little  to  mislead  us 
upon  this  point.  To  see  a  hectoring  fellow  ex- 
posed and  beaten  upon  the  stage,  has  something 
in  it  wonderfully  diverting.  Some  people's  share 
of  animal  spirits  is  notoriously  low  and  defective. 
It  has  not  strength  to  raise  a  vapour,  or  furnish  out 
'.he  wind  of  a  tolerable  bluster.  These  love  to  be 
told  that  huffing  is  no  part  of  valour.  The  truest 
courage  with  them  is  that  which  is  the  least  noisy 
and  obtrusive.  But  confront  one  of  these  silent 
heroes  with  the  swaggerer  of  real  life,  and  his  con- 
fidence in  the  theory  quickly  vanishes.  Preten- 
sions do  not  uniformly  bespeak  non-performance. 
A  modest,  inoffensive  deportment  does  not  neces- 
sarily imply  valour;  neither  does  the  absence  of  it 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  181 

justify  us  in  denying  that  quality.  Hickrnan  wanted 
modesty — we  do  not  mean  him  of  Clarissa — but 
who  ever  doubted  his  courage  ?  Even  the  poets — 
upon  whom  this  equitable  distribution  of  qualities 
should  be  most  binding — have  thought  it  agreeable 
to  nature  to  depart  from  the  rule  upon  occasion. 
Harapha,  in  the  "Agonistes,"  is  indeed  a  bully 
upon  the  received  notions.  Milton  has  made  him 
at  once  a  blusterer,  a  giant,  and  a  dastard.  But 
Almanzor,  in  Drj'den,  talks  of  driving  armies 
singly  before  him — and  does  it.  Tom  Brown  had 
a  shrewder  insight  into  this  kind  of  character  than 
either  of  his  predecessors.  He  divides  the  palm 
more  equably,  and  allows  his  hero  a  sort  of  dimi- 
diate pre-eminence: — "Bully  Dawson  kicked  by 
half  the  town,  and  half  the  town  kicked  by  Bully 
Dawson."     This  was  true  distributive  justice. 

11. — THAT  ILL-GOTTEN  GAIN  NEVER  PROSPERS. 

The  weakest  part  of  mankind  have  this  saying 
commonest  in  their  mouth.  It  is  the  trite  consola- 
tion administered  to  the  easy  dupe,  when  he  has 
been  tricked  out  of  his  money  or  estate,  that  the 
acquisition  of  it  will  do  the  owner  110  good.  But 
the  rogues  of  this  world — the  pnidenter  part  of 
them  at  least,— know  better;  and  if  the  observation 
had  been  as  true  as  it  is  old,  would  not  have  failed 
by  this  time  to  have  discovered  it.  They  have 
pretty  sharp  distinctions  of  the  fluctuating  and  the 
permanent.  "  Lightly  come,  lightly  go, "  is  a  pro- 
verb which  they  can  very  well  aflbrd  to  leave, 
when  they  leave  little  else,  to  the  losers.  They  do 
not  always  find  manors,  got  by  rapine  or  chicanery, 
insensibly  to  melt  away  as  the  poets  will  have  it ; 
or  that  all  gold  glides,  like  thawing  snow,  from 


i82  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA. 

the  thief's  hand  that  grasps  it.  Church  land,  alie- 
nated to  lay  uses,  was  formerly  denounced  to  have 
this  slippery  quality.  But  some  portions  of  it  some- 
how always  stuck  so  fast,  that  the  denunciators 
have  been  fain  to  postpone  the  prophecy  of  refund- 
ment to  a  late  posterity. 

III. — THAT  A  MAN  MUST  NOT  LAUGH  AT  HIS 
OWN  JEST. 

The  severest  exaction  surely  ever  invented  upon 
the  self-denial  of  poor  human  nature !  This  is  to 
expect  a  gentleman  to  give  a  treat  without  par- 
taking of  it  ;  to  sit  esurient  at  his  own  table,  and 
commend  the  flavour  of  his  venison  upon  the  ab- 
surd strength  of  his  never  touching  it  himself.  On 
the  contrary,  we  love  to  see  a  wag  taste  his  own 
joke  to  his  party;  to  watch  a  quirk  or  a  merry 
conceit  flickering  upon  the  lips  some  seconds  be- 
fore the  tongue  is  delivered  of  it.  If  it  be  good, 
fresh,  and  racy — begotten  of  the  occasion;  if  he 
that  utters  it  never  thought  it  before,  he  is  naturally 
the  first  to  be  tickled  with  it,  and  any  suppression 
of  such  complacence  we  hold  to  be  churlish  and 
insulting.  What  does  it  seem  to  imply  but  that 
your  company  is  weak  or  foolish  to  be  moved  by 
an  image  or  a  fancy  that  shall  stir  you  not  at  all,  or 
but  faintly?  This  is  exactly  the  humour  of  the  fine 
gentleman  in  Mandeville,  who,  while  he  dazzles 
his  guests  with  the  display  of  some  costly  toy, 
affects  himself  to  "see  nothing  considerable  in  it." 

IV.  —  THAT  SUCH  A  ONE  SHOWS  HIS  BREEDING. 
—  THAT  IT  IS  EASY  TO  PERCEIVE  HE  IS  NO 
GENTLEMAN. 

A  SPEECH  from  the  poorest  sort  of  people,  which 
always  indicates  that  the  party  vituperated  is  a 


POPULAR    FALLACIES.  183 

gentleman.  The  very  fact  wliicli  they  deny,  is 
that  which  galls  and  exasperates  them  to  use  this 
language.  The  forbearance  with  which  it  is  usually 
received  is  a  proof  what  interpretation  the  by- 
stander sets  upon  it.  Of  a  kin  to  this,  and  still 
less  politic,  are  the  phrases  with  which,  in  their 
street  rhetoric,  they  ply  one  another  more  grossly  ; 
— He  is  a  poor  creature. — He  has  not  a  rag  to  cover 
,  6^c.;  though  this  last,  we  confess,  is  more  fre- 
quently applied  by  females  to  females.  They  do 
not  perceive  that  the  satire  glances  upon  them- 
selves. A  poor  man,  of  all  things  in  the  world, 
should  not  upbraid  an  antagonist  with  poverty. 
Are  there  no  other  topics — as,  to  tell  him  his 
father  was  hanged — his  sister,  &c. without  ex- 
posing a  secret  which  should  be  kept  snug  between 
them";  and  doing  an  affront  to  the  order  to  which 
they  have  the  honour  equally  to  belong?  All  this 
while  they  do  not  see  how  the  wealthier  man  stands 
by  and  laughs  in  his  sleeve  at  both. 

V. — THAT  THE  POOR  COPY  THE  VICES  OF 
THE  RICH. 

A  SMOOTH  text  to  the  letter  ;  and,  preached  from 
the  pulpit,  is  sure  of  a  docile  audience  from  the 
pews  lined  with  satin.  It  is  twice  sitting  upon 
velvet  to  a  foolish  squire  to  be  told  that  he — and 
not  perverse  nature,  as  the  homilies  would  make 
us  imagine,  is  the  true  cause  of  all  the  irregula- 
rities in  his  parish.  This  is  striking  at  the  root  of 
free-will  indeed,  and  denying  the  originality  of  sin 
in  any  sense.  But  men  are  not  such  implicit  sheep 
as  this  comes  to.  If  the  abstinence  from  evil  on 
the  part  of  the  upper  classes  is  to  derive  itself  from 
no  higher  principle  than  the  apprehension  of  setting 
ill  patterns  to  the  lower,  we  beg  leave  to  discharge 


I'U  LAST  ESSAVS  OF  ELI  A. 

them  from  all  squeamishness  on  that  score  :  they 
may  even  take  their  fill  of  pleasures,  where  they 
can  find  them.  The  Genius  of  Poverty,  hampered 
and  straitened  as  it  is,  is  not  so  barren  of  invention 
but  it  can  trade  upon  the  staple  of  its  own  vice, 
without  drawing  upon  their  capital.  The  poor  are 
not  quite  such  sei"vile  imitators  as  they  take  them 
for.  Some  of  them  are  very  clever  artists  in  their 
way.  Here  and  there,  we  find  an  original.  Who 
taught  the  poor  to  steal — to  pilfer  ?  They  did  not 
go  to  the  great  for  schoolmasters  in  these  faculties, 
surely.  It  is  well  if  in  some  vices  they  allow  us  to 
be — no  copyists.  In  no  other  sense  is  it  true  that 
the  poor  copy  them,  than  as  servants  may  be  said 
to  ial-e  after  their  masters  and  mistresses  when 
they  succeed  to  their  reversionaiy  cold  meats. 
If  the  master,  from  indisposition,  or  some  other 
cause,  neglect  his  food,  the  servant  dines  notwith- 
standing. 

' '  O,  but  (some  will  say)  the  force  of  example  is 
great."  We  knew  a  lady  who  was  so  scrupulous 
on  this  head  that  she  would  put  up  with  the  calls 
of  the  most  impertinent  visitor,  rather  than  let  her 
servant  say  she  was  not  at  home,  for  fear  of  teach- 
ing her  maid  to  tell  an  untruth ;  and  this  in  the 
very  face  of  the  fact,  which  she  knew  well  er.ough, 
that  the  wench  was  one  of  the  greatest  liars  upon 
the  earth  without  teaching ;  so  much  so,  that  her 
mistress  possibly  never  heard  two  words  of  conse- 
cutive truth  from  her  in  her  life.  But  nature  must 
go  for  nothing ;  example  must  be  everything.  This 
liar  in  grain,  who  never  opened  her  mouth  without 
a  lie,  must  be  guarded  against  a  remote  inference, 
which  she  (pretty  casuist ! )  might  possibly  draw 
from  :i  form  of  words — literally  false,  but  essen- 
tially deceiving  no  one — that  under  some  circum- 


POPULAR  FALLACIES.  185 

stances  a  fib  might  not  be  so  exceedingly  sinful  — 
a  fiction,  too,  not  at  all  in  her  own  way,  or  one 
that  she  could  be  suspected  of  adopting,  for  few 
servant-wenches  care  to  be  denied  to  visitors. 

This  word  example  reminds  us  of  another  fine 
word  which  is  in  use  upon  these  occasions — e7tcou- 
ragemetit.  "  People  in  our  sphere  must  not  be 
thought  to  give  encouragement  to  such  proceed- 
ings." To  such  a  frantic  height  is  this  principle 
capable  of  being  carried,  that  we  have  known  in- 
dividuals who  "have  thought  it  within  the  scope  of 
their  influence  to  sanction  despair,  and  give  eclat 
to — suicide.  A  domestic  in  the  family  of  a  county 
member  lately  deceased,  from  love,  or  some  un- 
known cause,  cut  his  throat,  but  not  successfully 
The  poor  fellow  was  otherwise  much  loved  and  re- 
spected ;  and  great  interest  was  used  in  his  behalf, 
upon  his  recovery,  that  he  might  be  permitted  to 
retain  his  place ;  his  word  being  first  pledged,  not 
without  some  substantial  sponsors  to  promise  for 
him,  that  the  like  should  never  happen  again.  His 
master  was  inclinable  to  keep  him,  but  his  mistress 
thought  otherwise  ;  and  John  in  the  end  was  dis- 
missed, her  ladyship  declaring  that  she  "could 
not  think  of  encouraging  any  such  doings  in  the 
county." 

VI. — THAT  ENOUGH  IS  AS  GOOD  AS  A  FEAST. 

Not  a  man,  woman,  or  child,  in  ten  miles  round 
Guildhall,  who  really  believes  this  saying.  The 
inventor  of  it  did  not  believe  it  himself.  It  was 
made  in  revenge  by  somebody,  who  was  disap- 
pointed of  a  regale.  It  is  a  vile  cokl-scrag-of- 
mutton  sophism  ;  a  lie  palmed  upon  the  palate, 
which  knows  better  things.  If  nothing  else  could 
be  said  for  a  feast,  this  is  sufficient — that  from  the 


iS6  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

siiperflux  there  is  usually  something  left  for  the 
next  day.  Morally  interpreted,  it  belongs  to  a 
class  of  proverbs  which  have  a  tendency  to  make 
us  undervalue  money.  Of  this  cast  are  those  no- 
table observations,  that  money  is  not  health ;  riches 
cannot  purchase  everything  :  the  metaphor  which 
makes  gold  to  be  mere  muck,  with  the  morality 
which  traces  fine  clothing  to  the  sheep's  back,  and 
denounces  pearl  as  the  unhandsome  excretion  of 
an  oyster.  Hence,  too,  the  phrase  which  imputes 
dirt  to  acres — a  sophistry  so  barefaced,  that  even 
the  literal  sense  of  it  is  true  only  in  a  wet  season. 
This,  and  abundance  of  similar  sage  saws  assuming 
to  inculcate  content,  we  verily  believe  to  have  been 
the  invention  of  some  cunning  boiTower,  who  had 
designs  upon  the  purse  of  his  wealthier  neighbour, 
which  he  could  only  hope  to  carry  by  force  of  these 
verbal  jugglings.  Translate  any  one  of  these  say- 
ings out  of  the  artful  metonymy  which  envelopes 
it,  and  the  trick  is  apparent.  Goodly  legs  and 
shoulders  of  mutton,  exhilarating  cordials,  books, 
pictures,  the  opportunities  of  seeing  foreign  coun- 
tries, independence,  heart's  ease,  a  man's  own  time 
to  himself,  are  not  tnuck — however  we  may  be 
pleased  to  scandalize  with  that  appellation  the 
faithful  metal  that  provides  them  for  us. 

Vn. — OF  TWO  DISPUTANTS,  THE  WARMEST  IS 
GENERALLY  IN  THE  WRONG. 

Our  experience  would  lead  us  to  quite  an  oppo- 
site conclusion.  Temper,  indeed,  is  no  test  of 
truth  ;  but  warmth  and  earnestness  are  a  proof  at 
least  of  a  man's  own  conviction  of  the  rectitude  of 
that  which  he  maintains.  Coolness  is  as  often  the 
result  of  an  unprincipled  indifference  to  truth  or 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  \%; 

falsehood,  as  of  a  sober  confidence  in  a  man's  own 
side  in  a  dispute.  Nothing  is  more  insuUing  some- 
times than  the  appearance  of  tliis  philosopliic  tem- 
per. There  is  little  Titubus,  the  stammering  law- 
stationer  in  Lincoln's  Inn — -we  have  seldom  known 
this  shrewd  little  fellow  engaged  in  an  argument 
where  we  were  not  convinced  he  had  the  best  of 
it,  if  his  tongue  would  but  fairly  have  seconded 
him.  When  he  has  been  spluttering  excellent 
broken  sense  for  an  hour  toijether,  writhing  and 
labouring  to  be  delivered  of  the  point  of  dispute — 
the  very  gist  of  the  controversy  knocking  at  his 
teeth,  which,  like  some  obstinate  iron-grating,  still 
obstructed  its  deliverance — his  puny  frame  con- 
vulsed, and  face  reddening  all  over  at  an  unfairness 
in  the  logic  which  he  wanted  articulation  to  ex- 
pose, it  has  moved  our  gall  to  see  a  smooth  portly 
fellow  of  an  adversary,  that  cared  not  a  button  for 
the  merits  of  the  question,  by  merely  laying  his 
hand  upon  the  head  of  the  stationer,  and  desiring 
him  to  be  calm  (your  tall  disputants  have  always 
the  advantage),  with  a  provoking  sneer  carry  the 
argument  clean  from  him  in  the  opinion  of  all  the 
bystanders,  who  have  gone  away  clearly  convinced 
that  Titubus  must  have  been  in  the  wrong,  be- 
cause he  was  in  a  passion ;  and  that  Mr.  , 

meaning  his  opponent,  is  one  of  the  fairest  and  at 
the  same  time  one  of  the  most  dispassionate  arguers 
breathing. 

Vni. — THAT  VERBAL  ALLUSIONS  ARE  NOT  WIT, 
BECAUSE  THEY  WILL  NOT  BEAR  A  TRANSLA- 
TION. 

The  same  might  be  said  of  the  wittiest  local  al- 
lusions. ~  A  custom  is  sometimes  as  difficult  to  ex- 


i£8  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

plain  to  a  foreigner  as  a  pun.  What  would  become 
of  a  great  part  of  the  wit  of  the  last  age,  if  it  were 
tried  by  this  test  ?  How  would  certain  topics,  as 
aldermanity,  cuckoldry,  have  sounded  to  a  Teren- 
tian  auditory,  though  Terence  himself  had  been 
alive  to  translate  them?  Senator  tirhanus  with 
Curriica  to  boot  for  a  synonym,  would  but  faintly 
have  done  the  business.  Words,  involving  notions, 
are  hard  enough  to  render  ;  it  is  too  much  to  ex- 
pect us  to  translate  a  sound,  and  give  an  elegant 
version  to  a  jingle.  The  Virgilian  harmony  is  not 
translatable,  but  by  substituting  harmonious  sounds 
in  another  language  for  it.  To  Latinize  a  pun,  we 
must  seek  a  pun  in  Latin  that  will  answer  to  it ; 
as,  to  give  an  idea  of  the  double  endings  in  Hudi- 
bras,  we  must  have  recourse  to  a  similar  practice 
in  old  monkish  doggrel.  Dennis,  the  fiercest  op- 
pugner  of  puns  in  ancient  or  modern  times,  pro- 
fesses himself  highly  tickled  with  the  "a  stick," 
chiming  to  "ecclesiastic."  Yet  what  is  this  but  a 
species  of  pun,  a  verbal  consonance  ? 

IX. — THAT  THE  WORST  PUNS  ARE  THE  BEST. 

If  by  worst  be  only  meant  the  most  far-fetched 
and  startling,  we  agree  to  it.  A  pun  is  not  bound 
by  the  laws  which  limit  nicer  wit.  It  is  a  pistol 
let  off  at  the  ear ;  not  a  feather  to  tickle  the  intel- 
lect. It  is  an  antic  which  does  not  stand  upon 
manners,  but  comes  bounding  into  the  presence, 
and  does  not  show  the  less  comic  for  being  dragged 
in  sometimes  by  the  head  and  shoulders.  What 
though  it  limp  a  little,  or  prove  defective  in  one 
leg? — all  the  better.  A  pun  may  easily  be  too 
curious  and  artificial.  Who  has  not  at  one  time  or 
other  been  at  a  party  of  professors  (himself  perhaps 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  189 

an  old  offender  in  that  line),  where,  after  ringing 
a  round  of  the  most  ingenious  conceits,  every  man 
contributing  his  shot,  and  some  there  the  most  ex- 
pert shooters  of  the  day ;  after  making  a  poor  luord 
run  the  gauntlet  till  it  is  ready  to  drop ;  after  hunt- 
ing and  winding  it  through  all  the  possible  ambages 
of  similar  sounds ;  after  squeezing,  and  hauling, 
and  tugging  at  it,  till  the  veiy  milk  of  it  will  not 
yield  a  drop  further, — suddenly  some  obscure,  un- 
thought-of  fellow  in  a  corner,  who  was  never  'pren- 
tice to  the  trade,  whom  the  company  for  very  pity 
passed  over,  as  we  do  by  a  known  poor  man  when 
a  money-subscription  is  going  round,  no  one  calling 
upon  him  for  his  quota — has  all  at  once  come  out 
with  something  so  whimsical,  yet  so  pertinent ;  so 
brazen  in  its  pretensions,  yet  so  impossible  to  be 
denied ;  so  exquisitely  good,  and  so  deplorably 
bad,  at  the  same  time, — that  it  has  proved  a  Robm 
Hood's  shot;  anything  ulterior  to  that  is  despaired 
of;  and  the  party  breaks  up,  unanimously  voting  it 
to  be  the  very  worst  (that  is,  best)  pun  of  the  even- 
ing. This  species  of  wit  is  the  better  for  not  being 
perfect  in  all  its  parts.  What  it  gains  in  com- 
pleteness, it  loses  in  naturalness.  The  more  ex- 
actly it  satisfies  the  critical,  the  less  hold  it  has 
upon  some  other  faculties.  The  puns  which  are 
most  entertaining  are  those  which  will  least  bear 
an  analysis.  Of  this  kind  is  the  following,  recorded 
with  a  sort  of  stigma,  in  one  of  Swift's  Miscel- 
lanies. 

An  Oxford  scholar,  meeting  a  porter  who  was 
carrying  a  hare  through  the  streets,  accosts  him 
with  this  extraordinary  question :  ' '  Prithee,  friend, 
is  that  thy  own  hair  or  a  wig?" 

There  is  no  excusing  this,  and  no  resisting  it. 
A  man  might  blur  ten  sides  of  paper  in  attempting 


190  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

a  defence  of  it  against  a  critic  who  should  be  laugh- 
ter-proof. The  quibble  in  itself  is  not  considerable. 
It  is  only  a  new  turn  given  by  a  little  false  pro- 
nunciation to  a  very  common  though  not  very 
courteous  inquiry.  Put  by  one  gentleman  to  an- 
other at  a  dinner-party,  it  would  have  been  vapid ; 
to  the  mistress  of  the  house,  it  would  have  shown 
much  less  wit  than  rudeness.  We  must  take  in 
the  totality  of  time,  place,  and  person ;  the  pert 
look  of  the  inquiring  scholar,  the  desponding  looks 
of  the  puzzled  porter  :  the  one  stopping  at  leisure, 
the  other  hurrying  on  with  his  burden  ;  the  inno- 
cent though  rather  abnipt  tendency  of  the  first 
member  of  the  question,  with  the  utter  and  inex- 
tricable irrelevancy  of  the  second ;  the  place — a 
public  street,  not  favourable  to  frivolous  investi- 
gations ;  the  affrontive  quality  of  the  primitive  in- 
quiry (the  common  question)  invidiously  trans- 
ferred to  the  derivative  (the  new  turn  given  to  it) 
in  the  implied  satire;  namely,  that  few  of  that 
tribe  are  expected  to  eat  of  the  good  things  which 
they  carry,  they  being  in  most  countries  considered 
rather  as  the  temporary  trustees  than  owners  of 
such  dainties, — which  the  fellow  was  beginning  to 
understand ;  but  then  the  itng  again  comes  in,  and 
he  can  make  nothing  of  it;  all  put  together  con- 
stitute a  picture  :  Hogarth  could  have  made  it  in- 
telligible on  canvas. 

Yet  nine  out  of  ten  critics  will  pronounce  this  a 
very  bad  pun,  because  of  the  defectiveness  in  the 
concluding  member,  which  is  its  veiy  beauty,  and 
constitutes  the-surprise.  The  same  person  shall  cry 
up  for  admirable  the  old  quibble  from  Virgil  about 
the  broken  Cremona  ;'  because  it  is  made  out  in 

'  Swift. 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  19. 

all  its  parts,  and  leaves  nothing  to  the  imagination. 
We  venture  to  call  it  cold  ;  because,  of  thousands 
who  have  admired  it,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find 
one  who  has  heartily  chuckled  at  it.  As  appealing 
to  the  judgment  merely  (setting  the  risible  faculty 
aside),  we  must  pronounce  it  a  monument  of  curious 
felicity.  But  as  some  stories  are  said  to  be  too  good 
to  be  true,  it  may  with  equal  truth  be  asserted  of 
this  biverbal  allusion,  that  it  is  too  good  to  be 
natural.  One  cannot  help  suspecting  that  the 
incident  was  invented  to  fit  the  line.  It  would 
have  been  better  had  it  been  less  perfect.  Like 
some  Virgilian  hemistichs,  it  has  suffered  by  filling 
up.  The  nimiiun  Vicina  was  enough  in  conscience  ; 
the  Cremona  afterwards  loads  it.  It  is,  in  fact,  a 
double  pun  ;  and  we  have  always  observed  that  a 
superfoetation  in  this  sort  of  wit  is  dangerous.  When 
a  man  has  said  a  good  thing,  it  is  seldom  politic  to 
follow  it  up.  We  do  not  care  to  be  cheated  a 
second  time ;  or,  perhaps  the  mind  of  man  (with 
reverence  be  it  spoken)  is  not  capacious  enough  to 
lodge  two  puns  at  a  time.  The  impression,  to  be 
forcible,  must  be  simultaneous  and  undivided. 

X. — THAT  HANDSOME  IS  THAT  HANDSOME  DOES. 

Those  who  use  this  proverb  can  never  have  seen 
Mrs.  Conrady. 

The  soul,  *f  we  may  believe  Plotinus,  is  a  ray 
from  the  celestial  beauty.  As  she  partakes  more 
or  less  of  this  heavenly  light,  she  informs,  with 
corresponding  characters,  the  fleshly  tenement  which 
she  chooses,  and  frames  to  herself  a  suitable  mansion. 

All  which  only  proves  that  the  soul  of  Mrs. 
Conrady,  in  her  pre-existent  state,  was  no  great 
judge  of  architecture. 


152  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

To  the  same  effect,  in  a  Hymn  in  honour  of 
Beauty,  divine  Spenser  platoniaing  sings  : — 

Every  spirit  as  it  is  more  pure, 


And  hath  in  it  the  more  of  heavenly  Ught, 
So  it  the  fairer  body  doth  procure 
To  habit  in,  and  it  more  fairly  dight 
With  cheerlul  face  and  amiable  sight. 
For  of  the  soul  the  body  form  doth  take  : 
For  soul  is  form,  and  doth  the  body  make. 

But  Spenser,  it  is  clear,  never  saw  Mrs.  Conrady. 

These  poets,  we  find,  are  no  safe  guides  in 
philosophy  ;  for  here,  in  his  very  next  stanza  but 
one,  is  a  saving  clause,  which  throws  us  all  out 
again,  and  leaves  us  as  much  to  seek  as  ever  : — 

Yet  oft  it  falls,  that  many  a  gentle  mind 
Dwells  in  deformed  tabernacle  drown'd, 
Either  by  chance,  against  the  course  of  kind. 
Or  through  unaptness  in  the  substance  found, 
Which  it  assumed  of  some  stubborn  ground. 
That  will  not  yield  unto  her  form's  direction. 
But  is  performed  with  some  foul  imperfection. 

From  which  it  would  follow,  that  Spenser  had  seen 
somebody  like  Mrs.  Conrady. 

The  spirit  of  this  good  lady — her  previous  anima 
— must  have  stumbled  upon  one  of  these  untoward 
tabernacles  which  he  speaks  of.  A  more  rebellious 
commodity  of  clay  for  aground,  as  the  poet  calls  it, 
no  gentle  mind— and  sure  hers  is  one  of  the  gentlest 
— ever  had  to  deal  with. 

Pondering  upon  her  inexplicable  visage — inex- 
plicable, we  mean,  but  by  this  modification  of  the 
theory — we  have  come  to  a  conclusion  that,  if  one 
must  be  plain,  it  is  better  to  be  plain  all  over,  than 
amidst  a  tolerable  residue  of  features  to  hang  out 
one  that  shall  be  exceptionable.  No  one  can  say 
of  Mrs.  Conrady's  countenance  that  it  would  be 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  193 

better  if  she  had  but  a  nose.  It  is  impossible  to 
pull  her  to  pieces  in  this  manner.  We  have  seen 
the  most  malicious  beauties  of  her  own  sex  baffled 
in  the  attempt  at  a  selection.  The  tout-ensemble 
defies  particularizing.  It  is  too  complete — too  con- 
sistent, as  we  may  say — to  admit  of  these  invidious 
reservations.  It  is  not  as  if  some  Apelles  had  picked 
out  here  a  lip — and  there  a  chin — out  of  the  col- 
lected ugliness  of  Greece,  to  frame  a  model  by.  It 
is  a  symmetrical  whole.  We  challenge  the  minutest 
connoisseur  to  cavil  at  any  part  or  parcel  of  the 
countenance  in  question :  to  say  that  this,  or  that, 
is  improperly  placed.  We  are  convinced  that  true 
ugliness,  no  less  than  is  affirmed  of  true  beauty, 
is  the  result  of  harmony.  Like  that,  too,  it  reigns 
without  a  competitor.  No  one  ever  saw  Mrs. 
Conrady  without  pronouncing  her  to  be  the  plainest 
woman  that  he  ever  met  with  in  the  course  of  his 
life.  The  first  time  that  you  are  indulged  with  a 
sight  of  her  face,  is  an  era  in  your  existence  ever 
after.  You  are  glad  to  have  seen  it — like  Stone- 
henge.  No  one  can  pretend  to  forget  it.  No  one 
ever  apologized  to  her  for  meeting  her  in  the  street 
on  such  a  day  and  not  knowing  her  :  the  pretext 
would  be  too  bare.  Nobody  can  mistake  her  for 
another.  Nobody  can  say  of  her,  "I  think  I  have 
seen  that  face  somewhere,  but  I  cannot  call  to  mind 
where."  You  must  remember  that  in  such  a  parlour 
it  first  struck  you — like  a  bust.  You  wondered  where 
the  owner  of  the  house  had  picked  it  up.  You  won- 
dered more  when  it  began  to  move  its  lips — so 
mildly  too  !  No  one  ever  thought  of  asking  her  to  sit 
for  her  picture.  Lockets  are  for  remembrance  ;  and 
it  would  be  clearly  superfluous  to  hang  an  image  at 
your  heart,  which,  once  seen,  can  never  be  out  of 
it.  It  is  not  a  mean  face  either ;  its  entire  originality 
II.  o 


194    "  LAST  SSSAVS  OF  ELI  A. 

precludes  that.  Neither  is  it  of  that  order  of  plain 
faces  which  improve  upon  acquaintance.  Some  very 
good  but  ordinary  people,  by  an  unwearied  perse- 
verance in  good  offices,  put  a  cheat  upon  our  eyes  ; 
juggle  our  senses  out  of  their  natural  impressions  ; 
and  set  us  upon  discovering  good  indications  in_a 
countenance,  which  at  first  sight  promised  nothing 
less.  We  detect  gentleness,  which  had  escaped  us, 
lurking  about  an  under  lip.  But  when  Mrs.  Conrady 
has  done  you  a  service,  her  face  remains  the  same  ; 
when  she  has  done  you  a  thousand,  and  you  know 
that  she  is  ready  to'  double  the  number,  still  it  is 
that  individual  face.  Neither  can  you  say  of  it,  that 
it  would  be  a  good  face  if  it  were  not  marked  by 
the  small-pox — a  compliment  which  is  always  more 
admissive  than  excusatory — for  either  Mrs.  Conrady 
never  had  the  small-pox ;  or,  as  we  say,  took  it 
kindly.  No,  it  stands  upon  its  own  merits  fairly. 
There  it  is.  It  is  her  mark,  her  token  ;  that  which 
she  is  known  by. 

XI. — THAT  WE    MUST   NOT   LOOK  A   GIFT   HORSE 
IN   THE   MOUTH  : 

Nor  a  lady's  age  in  the  parish  register.  We  hope 
we  have  more  delicacy  than  to  do  either  ;  but  some 
faces  spare  us  the  trouble  of  these  dcfttal  inquiries. 
And  what  if  the  beast,  which  my  friend  would  force 
upon  my  acceptance,  prove,  upon  the  face  of  it,  a 
sorry  Rosinante,  a  lean,  ill-favoured  jade,  whom  no 
gentleman  could  think  of  setting  up  in  his  stables  ? 
Must  I,  rather  than  not  be  obliged  to  my  friend, 
make  her  a  companion  to  Eclipse  or  Lightfoot  ?  A 
horse-giver,  no  more  than  a  horse-seller,  has  a  right 
to  palm  his  spavined  article  upon  us  for  good  ware. 
An  equivalent  is  expected  in  either  case  ;  and,  with 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  105 

my  own  good-will,  I  could  no  more  be  cheated  out 
of  my  thanks  than  out  of  my  money.  Some  people 
have  a  knack  of  putting  upon  you  gifts  of  no  real 
value,  to  engage  you  to  substantial  gratitude.  We 
thank  them  for  nothing.  Our  friend  Mitis  carries 
this  humour  of  never  refusing  a  present  to  the  veiy 
point  of  absurdity — if  it  were  possible  to  couple  the 
ridiculous  with  so  much  mistaken  delicacy  and  real 
good-nature.  Not  an  apartment  in  his  fine  house 
(and  he  has  a  true  taste  in  household  decorations), 
but  is  stuffed  up  with  some  preposterous  print  or 
mirror— the  worst  adapted  to  his  panels  that  may  be 
— the  presents  of  his  friends  that  know  his  weakness ; 
while  his  noble  Vandykes  are  displaced  to  make 
room  for  a  set  of  daubs,  the  work  of  some  wretched 
artist  of  his  acquaintance,  who,  having  had  them 
returned  upon  his  hands  for  bad  likenesses,  finds 
his  account  in  bestowing  them  here  gratis.  The 
good  creature  has  not  the  heart  to  mortify  the 
painter  at  the  expense  of  an  honest  refusal.  It  is 
pleasant  (if  it  did  not  vex  one  at  the  same  time)  to 
see  him  sitting  in  his  dining  parlour,  surrounded 
with  obscure  aunts  and  cousins  to  God  knows  whom, 
while  the  true  Lady  Marys  and  Lady  Bettys  of  his 
own  honourable  family,  in  favour  to  these  adopted 
frights,  are  consigned  to  the  staircase  and  the  lum- 
ber room.  In  like  manner,  his  goodly  shelves  are 
one  by  one  stripped  of  his  favouj-ite  old  authors,  to 
give  place  to  a  collection  of  presentation  copies — 
the  flour  and  bran  of  modern  poetry.  A  presenta- 
tion copy,  reader — if  haply  you  are  yet  innocent  of 
such  favours— is  a  copy  of  a  book  which  does  not 
sell,  sent  you  by  the  author,  with  his  foolish  auto- 
graph at  the  beginning  of  it ;  for  which,  if  a  stran- 
ger, he  only  demands  your  friendship  ;  if  a  brother 
author,  he  expects  from  you  a  book  of  yours,  which 


196  LAST  £SSAyS  OF  ELI  A. 

does  sell,  in  return.  We  can  speak  to  experience, 
having  by  us  a  tolerable  assortment  of  these  gift- 
horses.  Not  to  ride  a  metaphor  to  death — we  are 
willing  to  acknowledge,  that  in  some  gifts  there  is 
sense.  A  duplicate  out  of  a  friend's  library  (where 
he  has  more  than  one  copy  of  a  rare  author)  is  in- 
telligible. There  are  favours,  short  of  the  pecuniary 
— a  thing  not  fit  to  be  hinted  at  among  gentlemen — 
which  confer  as  much  grace  upon  the  acceptor  as 
the  oft'erer  ;  the  kind,  we  confess,  which  is  most  to 
our  palate,  is  of  those  little  conciliatory  missives, 
which  for  their  vehicle  generally  choose  a  hamper 
— little  odd  presents  of  game,  fruit,  perhaps  wine — 
though  it  is  essential  to  the  delicacy  of  the  latter, 
that  it  be  home-made.  We  love  to  have  our  friend 
in  the  country  sitting  thus  at  our  table  by  proxy  ; 
to  apprehend  his  presence  (though  a  hundred  miles 
may  be  between  us)  by  a  turkey,  whose  goodly 
aspect  reflects  to  us  his  "  plump  corpusculum  ;  "  to 
taste  him  in  grouse  or  woodcock  ;  to  feel  him 
gliding  down  in  the  toast  peculiar  to  the  latter  ;  to 
concorporate  him  in  a  slice  of  Canterbury  brawn. 
This  is  indeed  to  have  him  within  ourselves  ;  to 
know  him  intimately  :  such  participation  is  me- 
thinks  unitive,  as  the  old  theologians  phrase  it. 
For  these  considerations  we  should  be  soriy  if 
certain  restrictive  regulations,  which  are  thought  to 
bear  hard  upon  the  peasantry  of  this  country,  were 
entirely  done  away  with.  A  hare,  as  the  law  now 
stands,  makes  many  friends.  Caius  conciliates 
Titius  (knowdng  hi^goiit)  with  a  leash  of  partridges. 
Titius  (suspecting  his  partiality  for  them)  passes 
them  to  Lucius  ;  who,  in  his  turn,  preferring  his 
friend's  relish  to  his  own,  makes  them  over  to 
Marcius  ;  till  in  their  ever-widening  progress,  and 
round  of  unconscious  circum-migration,  they  dis- 


POPULAR    FALLACIES.  ig; 

tribute  the  seeds  of  harmony  over  half  a  parish. 
We  are  well-disposed  to  this  kind  of  sensible  re- 
membrances ;  and  are  the  less  apt  to  be  taken  by 
those  little  airy  tokens— impalpable  to  the  palate — 
which,  under  the  names  of  rings,  lockets,  keep- 
sakes, amuse  some  people's  fancy  mightily.  We 
could  never  away  with  these  indigestible  trifles. 
They  are  the  very  kickshaws  and  foppery  of  friend- 
ship. 

XII. — THAT  HOME  IS  HOME  THOUGH  IT  IS  NEVER 
SO  HOMELY. 

Homes  there  are,  we  are  sure,  that  are  no  homes; 
the  home  of  the  very  poor  man,  and  another  which 
we  shall  speak  to  presently.  Crowded  places  of 
cheap  entertainment,  and  the  benches  of  alehouses, 
if  they  could  speak,  might  bear  mournful  testimony 
to  the  first.  To  them  the  very  poor  man  resorts 
for  an  image  of  the  home  which  he  cannot  find  at 
home.  For  a  starved  grate,  and  a  scanty  firing, 
that  is  not  enough  to  keep  alive  the  natural  heat 
in  the  fingers  of  so  many  shivering  children  with 
iheir  mother,  he  finds  in  the  depths  of  winter 
always  a  blazing  hearth,  and  a  hob  to  warm  his 
pittance  of  beer  by.  Instead  of  the  clamours  of  a 
wife,  made  gaunt  by  famishing,  he  meets  with  a 
cheerful  attendance  beyond  the  merits  of  the  trifle 
Mhich  he  can  afford  to  spend.  He  has  companions 
which  his  home  denies  him,  for  the  very  poor  man 
has  no  visitors.  He  can  look  into  the  goings  on 
of  the  world,  and  speak  a  little  to  politics.  At 
Iiome  there  are  no  politics  stirring,  but  the  do- 
mestic. All  interests,  real  or  imaginary,  all  topics 
that  should  expand  the  mind  of  man,  and  connect 
him  to  a  sympathy  with  general  existence,   aie 


158,  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

crushed  in  the  absorbing  consideration  of  food  to 
be  obtained  for  the  family.  Beyond  the  price  of 
bread,  news  is  senseless  and  impertinent.  At  home 
there  is  no  larder.  Here  there  is  at  least  a  show 
of  plenty ;  and  while  he  cooks  his  lean  scrap  of 
butcher's  meat  before  the  common  bars,  or  munches 
his  humbler  cold  viands,  his  relishing  bread  and 
cheese  with  an  onion,  in  a  corner,  where  no  one 
reflects  upon  his  poverty,  he  has  a  sight  of  the 
substantial  joint  providing  for  the  landlord  and  his 
family.  He  takes  an  interest  in  the  dressing  of  it ; 
and  while  he  assists  in  removing  the  trivet  from  the 
fire,  he  feels  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  beef  and 
cabbage,  which  he  was  beginning  to  forget  at  home. 
All  this  while  he  deserts  his  wife  and  children. 
But  what  wife,  and  what  children  !  Prosperous 
men,  who  object  to  this  desertion,  image  to  them- 
selves some  clean  contented  family  like  that  which 
they  go  home  to.  But  look  at  the  countenance  of 
the  poor  wives  who  follow  and  persecute  their  good- 
man  to  the  door  of  the  public-house,  which  he  is 
about  to  enter,  when  something  like  shame  would 
restrain  him,  if  stronger  misery  did  not  induce 
him  to  pass  the  threshold.  That  face,  ground  by 
want,  in  which  every  cheerful,  every  conversable 
lineament  has  been  long  effaced  by  misery — is  that 
a  face  to  stay  at  home  with  ?  is  it  more  a  woman, 
or  a  wild  cat?  alasl  it  is  the  face  of  the  wife  of  his 
youth,  that  once  smiled  upon  him.  It  can  smile 
no  longer.  What  comforts  can  it  share?  what 
burthens  can  it  lighten  ?  Oh,  'tis  a  fine  thing  to 
talk  of  the  humble  meal  shared  together  !  But 
what  if  there  be  no  bread  in  the  cupboard  ?  The 
innocent  ]irattle  of  his  children  takes  out  the  sting 
of  a  man's  poverty.  But  the  children  of  the  very 
poor  do  not  prattle.    It  is  none  of  the  least  frightful 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  199 

,  features  in  that  condition,  that  there  is  no  childish- 
ness in  its  dwellings.  Poor  people,  said  a  sensible 
old  nurse  to  us  once,  do  not  bring  up  their  children  ; 
they  drag  them  up. 

The  little  careless  darling  of  the  wealthier  nursery, 
in  their  hovel  is  transformed  betimes  into  a  prema- 
ture reflecting  person.  No  one  has  time  to  dandle 
it,  no  one  thinks  it  worth  while  to  coax  it,  to  soothe 
it,  to  toss  it  up  and  down,  to  humour  it.  There  is 
none  to  kiss  away  its  tears.  If  it  cries,  it  can  only 
be  beaten.  It  has  been  prettily  said,  that  "a  babe 
is  fed  with  milk  and  praise. "  But  the  aliment  oi 
this  poor  babe  was  thin,  unnourishing ;  the  return 
to  its  little  baby-tricks,  and  efforts  to  engage  at- 
tention, bitter  ceaseless  objurgation.  It  never  had 
a  toy,  or  knew  what  a  coral  meant.  It  grew  up 
without  the  lullaby  of  nurses,  it  was  a  stranger  to 
the  patient  fondle,  the  hushing  caress,  the  attract- 
ing novelty,  the  costlier  plaything,  or  the  cheaper 
off-hand  contrivance  to  divert  the  child ;  the  prat- 
tled nonsense  (best  sense  to  it),  the  wise  imperti- 
nences, the  wholesome  lies,  the  apt  story  inter- 
posed, that  puts  a  stop  to  present  sufferings,  and 
awakens  the  passions  of  young  wonder.  It  was 
never  sung  to — no  one  ever  told  to  it  a  tale  of  the 
nursery.  It  was  dragged  up,  to  live  or  to  die  as  it 
happened.  It  had  no  young  dreams.  It  broke  at 
once  into  the  iron  realities  of  life.  A  child  exists 
not  for  the  very  poor  as  any  object  of  dalliance  ;  it 
is  only  another  mouth  to  be  fed,  a  pair  of  little 
hands  to  be  betimes  inured  to  labour.  It  is  the 
rival,  till  it  can  be  the  co-operator,  for  food  with 
the  parent.  It  is  never  his  mirth,  his  diversion, 
his  solace  :  it  never  makes  him  young  again,  with 
recalling  his  young  times.  The  children  of  the 
very  poor  have  no  young  times.     It  makes  the 


joo  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  EL  I  A. 

veiy  heart  to  bleed  to  overhear  the  casual  street- 
talk  between  a  poor  woman  and  her  little  girl,  a 
woman  of  the  better  sort  of  poor,  in  a  condition 
rather  above  the  squalid  beings  which  we  have 
been  contemplating.  It  is  not  of  toj'S,  of  nursery 
books,  of  summer  holidays  (fitting  that  age) ;  of  the 
promised  sight,  or  play ;  of  praised  sufficiency  at 
school.  It  is  of  mangling  and  clear-starching,  of 
the  price  of  coals,  or  of  potatoes.  The  questions 
of  the  child,  that  should  be  the  very  outpourings 
of  curiosity  in  idleness,  are  marked  with  forecast 
and  melancholy  providence.  It  has  come  to  be  a 
woman, — before  it  was  a  child.  It  has  learned  to 
go  to  market ;  it  chaffers,  it  haggles,  it  envies,  it 
murmurs  ;  it  is  knowing,  acute,  sharpened  ;  it  never 
prattles.  Had  we  not  reason  to  say  that  the  home 
of  the  very  poor  is  no  home  ? 

There  is  yet  another  home,  which  we  are  con- 
strained to  deny  to  be  one.  It  has  a  larder,  which 
the  home  of  the  poor  man  wants  ;  its  fireside  con- 
veniences, of  which  the  poor  dream  not.  But  with 
all  this,  it  is  no  home.  It  is — the  house  of  a  man 
that  is  infested  with  many  visitors.  May  we  be 
branded  for  the  veriest  churl,  if  we  deny  our  heart 
to  the  many  noble-hearted  friends  that  at  times 
exchange  their  dwelling  for  our  poor  roof !  It  is 
not  of  guests  that  we  complain,  but  of  endless, 
purposeless  visitants ;  droppers-in,  as  they  are 
called.  We  sometimes  wonder  from  what  sky 
they  fall.  It  is  the  very  error  of  the  position  of 
our  lodging ;  its  horoscopy  was  ill  calculated, 
being  just  situate  in  a  medium — a  plaguy  suburban 
mid-space — fitted  to  catch  idlers  from  town  or 
country.  We  are  older  than  we  were,  and  age  is 
easily  put  out  of  its  way.  We  have  fewer  sands 
in  our  glass  to  reckon  upon,  and  we  cannot  brook 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  201 

to  see  them  drop  in  endlessly  succeeding  imper- 
tinences. At  our  time  of  life,  to  be  alone  some- 
times is  as  needful  as  sleep.  It  is  the  refreshing 
sleep  of  the  day.  The  growing  infirmities  of  age 
manifest  themselves  in  nothing  more  strongly  than 
in  an  inveterate  dislike  of  interruption.  The  thing 
which  we  are  doing,  we  wish  to  be  permitted  to 
do.  We  have  neither  much  knowledge  nor  de- 
vices; but  there  are  fewer  in  the  place  to  which 
we  hasten.  We  are  not  willingly  put  out  of  our 
way,  even  at  a  game  of  nine-pins.  While  youth 
was,  we  had  vast  reversions  in  time  future ;  we  are 
reduced  to  a  present  pittance,  and  obliged  to 
economize  in  that  article.  We  bleed  away  our 
moments  now  as  hardly  as  our  ducats.  We  cannot 
bear  to  have  our  thin  wardrobe  eaten  and  fretted 
into  by  moths.  We  are  willing  to  barter  our  good 
time  with  a  friend,  who  gives  us  in  exchange  his 
own.  Herein  is  the  distinction  between  the  genuine 
guest  and  the  visitant.  This  latter  takes  your  good 
time,  and  gives  you  his  bad  in  exchange.  The 
guest  is  domestic  to  you  as  your  good  cat,  or  house- 
hold bird ;  the  visitant  is  your  fly,  that  flaps  in  at 
your  window  and  out  again,  leaving  nothing  but 
a  sense  of  disturbance,  and  victuals  spoiled.  The 
inferior  functions  of  life  begin  to  move  heavily. 
We  cannot  concoct  our  food  with  interruptions. 
Our  chief  meal,  to  be  nutritive,  must  be  solitary. 
With  difficulty  we  can  eat  before  a  guest;  and 
never  understood  what  the  relish  of  public  feasting 
meant.  Meats  have  no  sapor,  nor  digestion  fair 
play  in  a  crowd.  The  unexpected  coming  in  of  a 
visitant  stops  the  machine.  There  is  a  punctual 
generation  who  time  their  calls  to  the  precise  com- 
mencement of  your  dining-hour — not  to  eat — but 
to  see  you  eat.     Our  knife  and  fork  drop  instinc- 


3.>2  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

lively,  and  we  feel  that  we  have  swallowed  our 
latest  morsel.  Others  again  show  their  genius,  as 
we  have  said,  in  knocking  the  moment  you  have 
just  sat  down  to  a  book.  They  have  a  peculiar 
compassionate  sneer,  with  which  they  "  hope  that 
they  do  not  interrupt  yoiu-  studies."  Though  they 
flutter  off  the  next  moment,  to  carry  their  imper- 
tinences to  the  nearest  student  that  they  can  call 
their  friend,  the  tone  of  the  book  is  spoiled ;  we 
shut  the  leaves,  and  with  Dante's  lovers,  read  no 
more  that  day.  It  were  well  if  the  effect  of  in- 
trusion were  simply  co-extensive  with  its  presence, 
but  it  mars  all  the  good  hours  afterwards.  These 
scratches  in  appearance  leave  an  orifice  that  closes 
not  hastily.  "It  is  a  prostitution  of  the  bravery 
of  friendship,"  says  worthy  Bishop  Tajdor,  "to 
spend  it  upon  impertinent  people,  who  are,  it  may 
be,  loads  to  their  families,  but  can  never  ease  my 
loads."  This  is  the  secret  of  their  gaddings,  their 
visits,  and  morning  calls.  They  too  have  homes, 
which  are — no  homes. 


XIII. — THAT   YOU    MUST   LOVE    ME   AND   LOVE 
MY   DOG. 

"Good  sir,  or  madam — as  it  may  be — we  most 
willingly  embrace  the  offer  of  your  friendship.  We 
have  long  knowli  your  excellent  qualities.  We 
have  wished  to  have  you  nearer  to  us ;  to  hold  you 
within  the  very  innermost  fold  of  our  heart.  We 
can  have  no  reserve  towards  a  person  of  your  open 
and  noble  nature.  The  frankness  of  5'our  humour 
suits  us  exactly.  We  have  been  long  looking  for 
such  a  friend.  Quick — let  us  disburthen  our  trou- 
bles into  each  other's  bosom— let  us  make  our 
single  joys  shine  by  reduplication. — But  j^a/,  yap. 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  203 

yap!  what  is  this  confounded  cur?  he  has  fastened 
his  tooth,  which  is  none  of  the  bluntest,  just  in  the 
fleshy  part  of  my  leg. " 

"  It  is  my  dog,  sir.  You  must  love  him  for  my 
sake.     Here,  Test— Test— Test ! " 

"  But  he  has  bitten  me." 

"  Ay,  that  he  is  apt  to  do,  till  you  are  better 
acquainted  with  him.  I  have  had  him  three  years. 
He  never  bites  uie." 

Yap,  yap,  yap  ! — "  He  is  at  it  again." 

"Oh,  sir,  you  must  not  kick  him.  He  does  not 
like  to  be  kicked.  I  expect  my  dog  to  be  treated 
with  all  the  respect  due  to  myself." 

"  But  do  you  always  take  him  out  with  you, 
when  you  go  a  friendship-hunting  ?" 

"  Invariably.  'Tis  the  sweetest,  prettiest,  best- 
conditioned  animal.  I  call  him  my  test — the  touch- 
stone by  which  to  try  a  friend.  No  one  can  pro- 
perly be  said  to  love  me,  who  does  not  love  him." 

"Excuse  us,  dear  sir — or  madam,  aforesaid — if 
upon  further  consideration  we  are  obliged  to  de-  ■ 
cline  the  othei-wise  invaluable  offer  of  your  friend- 
ship.    We  do  not  like  dogs." 

"  Mighty  well,  sir, — you  know  the  conditions — 
you  may  have  worse  offers.     Come  along.  Test." 

The  above  dialogue  is  not  so  imaginary,  but 
that,  in  the  intercourse  of  life,  we  have  had  fre- 
quent occasions  of  breaking  off  an  agreeable  inti- 
macy by  reason  of  these  canine  appendages.  They 
do  not  always  come  in  the  shape  of  dogs ;  they 
sometimes  wear  the  more  plausible  and  human 
character  of  kinsfolk,  near  acquaintances,  my 
friend's  friend,  his  partner,  his  wife,  or  his  children. 
We  could  never  yet  form  a  friendship — not  to 
speak  of  more  delicate  correspondence — however 
much  to  our  taste,  without  the  intervention  of  some 


204  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

third  anomaly,  some  impertinent  clog  affixed  to 
the  relation — the  understood  dog  in  the  proverb. 
The  good  things  of  life  are  not  to  be  had  singly, 
but  come  to  us  with  a  mixture;  like  a  school-boy's 
holiday,  with  a  task  affixed  to  the  tail  of  it.  What 
a  delightful  companion  is  »  *  *  *^  if  he  did  not 
always  bring  his  tall  cousin  with  him  !  He  seems 
to  grow  with  him ;  like  some  of  those  double 
births  which  we  remember  to  have  read  of  with 
such  wonder  and  delight  in  the  old  "  Athenian 
Oracle,"  where  Swift  commenced  author  by  writing 
Pindaric  Odes  (what  a  beginning  for  him  !)  upon 
Sir  William  Temple.  There  is  the  picture  of  the 
brother,  with  the  little  brother  peeping  out  at  his 
shoulder;  a  species  of  fraternity,  which  we  have 
no  name  of  kin  close  enough  to  comprehend;  When 
*  *  *  *  comes,  poking  in  his  head  and  shoulder 
into  your  room,  as  if  to  feel  his  entry,  you  think, 
surely  you  have  now  got  him  to  yourself — what  a 
three  hours'  chat  we  shall  have  !  But  ever  in  the 
haunch  of  him,  and  before  his  diffident  body  is 
well  disclosed  in  your  apartment,  appears  the 
haunting  shadow  of  the  cousin,  overpeering  his 
modest  kinsman,  and  sure  to  overlay  the  expected 
good  talk  with  his  insufferable  procerity  of  stature, 
and  uncorresponding  dwarfishness  of  observation. 
Misfortunes  seldom  come  alone.  'Tis  hard  when 
a  blessing  comes  accompanied.  Cannot  we  like 
Sempronia,  without  sitting  down  to  chess  with  her 
eternal  brother  ;  or  know  Sulpicia,  without  know- 
ing all  the  round  of  her  card-playing  relations  ?— 
must  my  fiiend's  brethren  of  necessity  be  mine 
also  ?  must  we  be  hand  and  glove  with  Dick  Selby 
the  parson,  or  Jack  Selby  the  calico-printer,  be- 
cause W.  S.,  who  is  neither,  but  a  ripe  wit  and  a 
critic,    has   the   misfortune    to   claim   a   common 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  205 

parentage  with  them  ?  Let  him  lay  down  his 
brothers ;  and  'tis  odds  but  we  will  cast  him  in  a 
pair  of  ours  (we  have  a  superflux)  to  balance  the 
concession.  Let  F.  H.  lay  down  his  garrulous 
uncle ;  and  Honorius  dismiss  his  vapid  wife,  and 
superfluous  establishment  of  six  boys :  things  be- 
tween boy  and  manhood — too  ripe  for  play,  too 
raw  for  conversation — that  come  in,  impudently 
staring  his  father's  old  friend  out  of  countenance ; 
and  will  neither  aid  nor  let  alone,  the  conference ; 
that  we  may  once  more  meet  upon  equal  terms,  as 
we  were  wont  to  do  in  the  disengaged  state  of 
bachelorhood. 

It  is  well  if  your  friend,  or  mistress,  be  content 
with  these  canicular  probations.  Few  young  ladies 
but  in  this  sense  keep  a  dog.  But  when  Rutilia 
hounds  at  you  her  tiger  aunt ;  or  Ruspina  expects 
you  to  cherish  and  fondle  her  viper  sister,  whom 
she  has  preposterously  taken  into  her  bosom,  to 
try  stinging  conclusions  upon  your  constancy;  they 
must  not  complain  if  the  house  be  rather  thin  of 
suitors.  Scylla  must  have  broken  off  many  excel- 
lent matches  in  her  time,  if  she  insisted  upon  all 
that  loved  her  loving  her  dogs  also. 

An  excellent  story  to  this  moral  is  told  of  Merry, 
of  Delia  Cruscan  memory.  In  tender  youth  he 
loved  and  courted  a  modest  appanage  to  the  Opera 
— in  truth,  a  dancer — who  had  won  him  by  the 
artless  contrast  between  her  manners  and  situation. 
She  seemed  to  him  a  native  violet,  that  had  been 
transplanted  by  some  rude  accident  into  that  exotic 
and  artificial  hotbed.  Nor,  in  truth,  was  she  less 
genuine  and  sincere  than  she  appeared  to  hun. 
He  wooed  and  won  this  flower.  Only  for  appear- 
ance sake,  and  for  due  honour  to  the  bride's  rela- 
tions, she  craved  that  she  might  have  the  atten- 


2o6  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

dance  of  her  friends  and  kindred  at  the  approaching 
solemnity.  The  request  was  too  amiable  not  to 
be  conceded  ;  and  in  this  solicitude  for  conciliat- 
ing the  good-will  of  mere  relations,  he  found  a 
presage  of  her  superior  attentions  to  himself,  when 
the  golden  shaft  should  have  "killed  the  flock  of 
all  aifections  else."  The  morning  came  :  and  at  the 
Star  and  Garter,  Richmond — the  place  appointed 
for  the  breakfasting — accompanied  with  one  Eng- 
lish friend,  he  impatiently  awaited  what  reinforce- 
ments the  bride  should  bring  to  grace  the  ceremony. 
A  rich  muster  she  had  made.  They  came  in  six 
coaches — the  whole  corps  du  ballet — French,  Ita- 
lian, men  and  women.  Monsieur  de  B.,  the  ^2^- 
TaoMS  pirouetter  of  the  day,  led  his  fair  spouse,  but 
craggy,  from  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  The  Prima 
Donna  had  sent  her  excuse.  But  the  first  and  se- 
cond  Buffa  were  there;  and  Signor  Sc ,  and 

Signora  Ch ,  and  Madame  V ,  with  a  count- 
less cavalcade  besides  of  chorusers,  figurantes  !  at 
the  sight  of  whom  Merry  afterwards  declared,  that 
"then  for  the  first  time  it  struck  him  seriously, 
that  he  was  about  to  marry — a  dancer. "  But  there 
was  no  help  for  it.  Besides,  it  was  her  day  ;  these 
were,  in  fact,  her  friends  and  kinsfolk.  The  as- 
semblage, though  whimsical,  was  all  very  natural. 
But  when  the  bride — handing  out  of  the  last  coach 
a  still  more  extraordinary  figure  than  the  rest — ■ 
presented  to  him  as  h.e.r father — the  gentleman  that 
was  to  give  her  away — no  less  a  person  than  Signor 
Delpini  himself— with  a  sort  of  pride,  as  much  as 
to  say.  See  what  I  have  brought  to  do  us  honour ! 
— the  thought  of  so  extraordinary  a  paternity  quite 
overcame  him  ;  and  slipping  away  under  some  pre- 
tence from  the  bride  and  her  motley  adherents, 
poor  Merry  took  horse  from  the  back-yard  to  the 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  207 

nearest  sea-coast,  from  which,  shipping  himself  to 
America,  he  sliortly  after  consoled  himself  with  a 
more  congenial  match  in  the  person  of  Miss  Brunton; 
relieved  from  his  intended  clown  father,  and  a  bevy 
of  painted  buffas  for  bridemaids. 


XIV. — THAT   WE   SHOULD    RISE   WITH   THE 
LARK. 

At  what  precise  minute  that  little  airy  musician 
doffs  his  night  gear,  and  prepares  to  tune  up  his 
unseasonable  matins,  we  are  not  naturalist  enough 
to  deiermine.  But  for  a  mere  human  gentleman — 
that  has  no  orchestra  business  to  call  him  from  his 
warm  bed  to  such  preposterous  exercises^we  take 
ten,  or  half  after  ten  (eleven,  of  course,  during  this 
Christmas  solstice),  to  be  the  very  earliest  hour  at 
which  he  can  begin  to  think  of  abandoning  his  pil- 
low. To  think  of  it,  we  say  ;  for  to  do  it  in  earnest 
requires  another  half  hour's  good  consideration. 
Not  but  there  are  pretty  sun-risings,  as  we  are 
told,  and  such  like  gawds,  abroad  in  the  world,  in 
summer-time  especially,  some  hours  before  what 
we  have  assigned ;  which  a  gentleman  may  see,  as 
they  say,  only  for  getting  up.  But  having  been 
tempted  once  or  twice,  in  earlier  life,  to  assist  at 
those  ceremonies,  we  confess  our  curiosity  abated. 
We  are  no  longer  ambitious  of  being  the  sun's 
courtiers,  to  attend  at  his  morning  levees.  We 
hold  the  good  hours  of  the  dawn  too  sacred  to 
waste  them  upon  such  observances ;  which  have  in 
them,  besides,  something  Pagan  and  Persic.  To 
say  truth,  we  never  anticipated  our  usual  hour,  or 
got  up  with  the  sun  (as  'tis  called),  to  go  a  journey, 
or  upon  a  foolish  whole  day's  pleasuring,  but  we 
suffered  for  it  all  the  long  hours  after  in  listless- 


2o8  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

ness  and  headaches  ;  Nature  herself  sufficiently  de- 
claring her  sense  of  our  presumption  in  aspiring  to 
regulate  our  frail  waking  courses  by  the  measures 
of  that  celestial  and  sleepless  traveller.  We  deny 
not  that  there  is  something  sprightly  and  vigorous, 
at  the  outset  especially,  in  these  break-of-day  ex- 
cursions. It  is  flattering  to  get  the  start  of  a  lazy 
world ;  to  conquer  Death  by  proxy  in  his  image. 
But  the  seeds  of  sleep  and  mortality  are  in  us ;  and 
we  pay  usually,  in  strange  qualms  before  night  falls, 
the  penalty  of  the  unnatural  inversion.  Therefore, 
while  the  busy  part  of  mankind  are  fast  huddling 
on  their  clothes,  are  already  up  and  about  their 
occupations,  content  to  have  swallowed  their  sleep 
by  wholesale ;  we  choose  to  linger  a-bed  and  digest 
our  dreams.  It  is  the  very  time  to  recombine  the 
wandering  images  which  night  in  a  confused  mass 
presented ;  to  snatch  them  from  forgetfulness ;  to 
shape  and  mould  them.  Some  people  have  no 
good  of  their  dreams.  Like  fast  feeders,  they  gulp 
them  too  grossly,  to  taste  them  curiously.  We  love 
to  chew  the  cud  of  a  foregone  vision  ;  to  collect  the 
scattered  rays  of  a  brighter  phantasm,  or  act  over 
again,  with  firmer  nerves,  the  sadder  nocturnal 
tragedies ;  to  drag  into  daylight  a  struggling  and 
half-vanishing  night-mare  ;  to  handle  and  examine 
the  terrors,  or  the  airy  solaces.  We  have  too  much 
respect  for  these  spiritual  communications,  to  let 
them  go  so  lightly.  We  are  not  so  stupid,  or  so 
careless  as  that  Imperial  forgetter  of  his  dreams, 
that  we  should  need  a  seer  to  remind  us  of  the 
form  of  them.  They  seem  to  us  to  have  as  much 
significance  as  our  waking  concerns ;  or  rather  to 
import  us  more  nearly,  as  more  nearly  we  approach 
by  years  to  the  shadowy  world,  whither  we  are 
hastening.    We  have  shaken  hands  with  the  world's 


POPULAR    FALLACIES.  209 

business ;  we  have  done  with  it ;  we  have  dis- 
charged ourself  of  it.  Why  should  we  get  up  ?  we 
have  neither  suit  to  solicit,  nor  affairs  to  manage. 
The  drama  has  shut  upon  us  at  the  fourth  act. 
We  have  nothing  here  to  expect,  but  in  a  short 
time  a  sick-bed,  and  a  dismissal.  We  delight  to 
anticipate  death  by  such  shadows  as  night  affords. 
We  are  already  half  acquainted  with  ghosts.  We 
were  never  much  in  the  world.  Disappointment 
early  struck  a  dark  veil  between  us  and  its  dazzling 
illusions.  Our  spirits  showed  grey  before  our  hairs. 
The  mighty  changes  of  the  world  already  appear 
as  but  the  vain  stuff  out  of  which  dramas  are  com- 
posed. We  have  asked  no  more  of  life  than  what 
the  mimic  images  in  play-houses  present  us  with. 
Even  those  types  have  waxed  fainter.  Our  clock 
appears  to  have  stnick.  We  are  superannuated. 
In  this  dearth  of  mundane  satisfaction,  we  contract 
politic  alliances  with  shadows.  It  is  good  to  have 
friends  at  court.  The  extracted  media  of  dreams 
seem  no  ill  introduction  to  that  spiritual  presence, 
upon  which,  in  no  long  time,  we  expect  to  be 
thrown.  We  are  trying  to  know  a  little  of  the 
usages  of  that  colony ;  to  learn  the  language  and 
the  faces  we  shall  meet  with  there,  that  we  may  be 
the  less  awkward  at  our  first  coming  among  them. 
We  willingly  call  a  phantom  our  fellow,  as  know- 
ing we  shall  soon  be  of  their  dark  companionship. 
Therefore  we  cherish  dreams.  We  try  to  spell 
in  them  the  alphabet  of  the  invisible  world ;  and 
think  we  know  already  how  it  shall  be  with  us. 
Those  uncouth  shapes  which,  while  we  clung  to 
flesh  and  blood,  affrighted  us,  have  become  fami- 
liar. We  feel  attenuated  into  their  meagre  essences, 
and  have  given  the  hand  of  half-way  approach  to 
incorporeal  being.  We  once  thought  life  to  be 
II.  P 


aio  LAST  EJSAYS  OF  EL  I  A. 

something ;  but  it  has  unaccountably  fallen  from 
us  before  its  time.  Therefore  we  choose  to  dally 
with  visions.  The  sun  has  no  purposes  of  ours  to 
light  us  to.     Why  should  we  get  up  ? 

XV. — THAT   WE   SHOULD    LIE   DOWN    WITH 
THE    LAMB. 

We  could  never  quite  understand  the  philosophy  of 
this  arrangement,  or  the  wisdom  of  our  ancestors 
in  sending  us  for  instruction  to  these  woolly  bed- 
fellows. A  sheep,  when  it  is  dark,  has  nothing  to 
do  but  to  shut  his  silly  eyes,  and  sleep  if  he  can. 
Man  found  out  long  sixes — Hail,  candlelight !  with- 
out disparagement  to  sun  or  moon,  the  kindliest 
luminary  of  the  three — if  we  may  not  rather  style 
thee  their  radiant  deputy,  mild  viceroy  of  the  moon  ! 
— We  love  to  read,  talk,  sit  silent,  eat,  drink,  sleep, 
by  candle-light.  They  are  everybody's  sun  and 
moon.  This  is  our  peculiar  and  household  planet. 
Wanting  it,  what  savage  unsocial  nights  must  our 
ancestors  have  spent,  wintering  in  caves  and  un- 
illumined  fastnesses !  They  must  have  lain  about 
and  grumbled  at  one  another  in  the  dark.  What 
repartees  could  have  passed  when  you  must  have 
felt  about  for  a  smile,  and  handled  a  neighbour's 
cheek  to  be  sure  that  he  understood  it?  This  ac- 
counts for  the  seriousness  of  the  elder  poetiy.  It 
has  a  sombre  cast  {try  Hesiod  or  Ossian),  derived 
from  the  tradition  of  those  unlantern'd  nights. 
Jokes  came  in  with  candles.  We  wonder  how  they 
saw  to  pick  up  a  pin,  if  they  had  any.  How  did 
they  sup  ?  what  a  melange  of  chance  carving  they 
must  have  made  of  it ! — here  one  had  got  a  leg  of 
a  goat  when  he  wanted  a  horse's  shoulder — there 
another  had  dipped  his  scooped  palm  in  a  kid-skin 


POPULAR   FALLACIES.  211 

of  wild  honey,  when  he  meditated  right  mare's 
milk.  There  is  neither  good  eating  nor  drinking 
in  fresco.  Who,  even  in  these  civilized  times,  has 
never  experienced  this,  when  at  some  economic 
table  he  has  commenced  dining  after  dusk,  and 
waited  for  the  flavour  till  the  lights  came?  The 
senses  absolutely  give  and  take  reciprocally.  Can 
you  tell  pork  from  veal  in  the  dark?  or  distinguish 
Sherris  from  pure  Malaga  ?  Take  away  the  candle 
from  the  smoking  man  ;  by  the  glimmering  of  the 
left  ashes,  he  knows  that  he  is  still  smoking,  but 
he  knows  it  only  by  an  inference ;  till  the  restored 
light,  coming  in  aid  of  the  olfactories,  reveals  to 
both  senses  the  full  aroma.  Then  how  he  redoubles 
his  puffs !  how  he  burnishes  ! — there  is  absolutely 
no  such  thing  as  reading  but  by  a  candle.  We 
have  tried  the  affectation  of  a  book  at  noon-day  in 
gardens,  and  in  sultry  arbours;  but  it  was  labour 
thrown  away.  Those  gay  motes  in  the  beam  come 
about  you,  hovering  and  teasing,  like  so  many  co- 
quettes, that  will  have  you  all  to  their  self  and 
are  jealous  of  your  abstractions.  By  the  midnight 
taper,  the  writer  digests  his  meditations.  By  the 
same  light  we  must  approach  to  their  perusal, 
if  we  would  catch  the  flame,  the  odour.  It  is  a 
mockery,  all  that  is  reported  of  the  influential 
Phoebus.  No  true  poem  ever  owed  its  birth  to  the 
sun's  light.     They  are  abstracted  works — 

Things  that  were  born,  when  none  but  the  still  night, 
And  his  dumb  candle,  saw  his  pinching  throes. 

Marry,  daylight — daylight  might  furnish  the  images, 
the  crude  material ;  but  for  the  fine  shapings, 
the  true  turning  and  filing  (as  mine  author  hath 
it),  they  must  be  content  to  hold  their  inspira- 
tion of  the  candle. — The  mild  internal  light,  that 


212  LAS7    ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

reveals  them,  like  fires  on  the  domestic  hearth, 
goes  out  in  the  sun-shine.  Night  and  silence  call 
out  the  staiTy  fancies.  Milton's  Morning  Hymn 
in  Paradise,  we  would  hold  a  good  wager,  was 
penned  at  midnight ;  and  Taylor's  rich  description 
of  a  sun-rise  smells  decidedly  of  the  taper.  Even 
ourself,  in  these  our  humbler  lucubrations,  tune  our 
best-measured  cadences  (Prose  has  her  cadences) 
not  unfrequently  to  the  charm  of  the  drowsier 
watchman,  "blessing  the  doors;"  or  the  wild 
sweep  of  winds  at  midnight.  Even  now  a  loftier 
speculation  than  we  have  yet  attempted,  courts  our 
endeavours.  We  would  indite  something  about  the 
Solar  System. — Betty,  bi-ing  the  candles. 

XVI. — THAT  A  SULKY  TEMPER  IS  A  MISFORTUNE. 

We  grant  that  it  is,  and  a  very  serious  one — to  a 
man's  friends,  and  to  all  that  have  to  do  with  him  ; 
but  whether  the  condition  of  the  man  himself  is  so 
much  to  be  deplored,  may  admit  of  a  question.  We 
can  speak  a  little  to  it,  being  ourselves  but  lately 
recovered — we  whisper  it  in  confidence,  reader — 
out  of  a  long  and  desperate  fit  of  the  sullens.  Was 
the  cure  a  blessing  ?  The  conviction  which  wrought 
it,  came  too  clearly  to  leave  a  scruple  of  the  fanciful 
injuries — for  they  were  mere  fancies — which  had 
provoked  the  humour.  But  the  humour  itself  was 
too  self- pleasing  while  it  lasted — we  know  how  bare 
we  lay  ourself  in  the  confession — to  be  abandoned 
all  at  once  with  the  grounds  of  it.  We  still  brood 
over  wrongs  which  we  know  to  have  been  imagi- 
nary ;  and  for  our  old  acquaintance  N ,  whom 

we  find  to  have  been  a  truer  friend  than  we  took 
him  for,  we  substitute  some  phantom — a  Caius  or 
a  Titius — as  like  him  as  we  dare  to  form  it,  to  wreak 


POPULAR    FALLACIES.  313 

our  yet  unsatisfied  resentments  on.  It  is  mortifying 
to  fall  at  once  from  the  pinnacle  of  neglect ;  to 
forego  the  idea  of  having  been  ill-used  and  contu- 
maciously treated  by  an  old  friend.  The  first  thing 
to  aggrandize  a  man  in  his  own  conceit,  is  to  con- 
ceive of  himself  as  neglected.  There  let  him  fix  if 
he  can.  To  undeceive  him  is  to  deprive  him  of  the 
most  tickling  morsel  within  the  range  of  self-com- 
placency. No  flattery  can  come  near  it.  Happy  is 
he  who  suspects  his  friend  of  an  injustice  ;  but  su- 
premely blest,  who  thinks  all  his  friends  in  a  con- 
spiracy to  depress  and  undervalue  him.  There  is  a 
pleasure  (we  sing  not  to  the  profane)  far  beyond  the 
reach  of  all  that  the  world  calls  joy — a  deep,  en- 
during satisfaction  i;i  the  depths,  where  the  super- 
ficial seek  it  not,  of  discontent.  Were  we  to  recite 
one  half  of  this  mystery — which  we  were  let  into  by 
our  late  dissatisfaction,  all  the  world  would  be  in 
love  with  disrespect ;  we  should  wear  a  slight  for 
a  bracelet,  and  neglects  and  contumacies  would  be 
the  only  matter  for  courtship.  Unlike  to  that  mys- 
terious book  in  the  Apocalypse,  the  study  of  this 
mystery  is  unpalatable  only  in  the  commencement. 
The  first  sting  of  a  saspicion  is  grievous  ;  but  wait 
— out  of  that  wound,  which  to  flesh  and  blood 
seemed  so  difficult,  there  is  balm  and  honey  to  be 
extracted.  Your  friend  passed  you  on  such  or  such 
a  day, — having  in  his  company  one  that  you  con- 
ceived worse  than  ambiguously  disposed  towards 
you, — passed  you  in  the  street  without  notice.  To 
be  sure,  he  is  something  short-sighted  ;  and  it  was 
in  your  power  to  have  accosted  him.  But  facts  and 
sane  inferences  are  trifles  to  a  true  adept  in  the 
science  of  dissatisfaction.    He  must  have  seen  you  ; 

and  S ,  who  was  with  him,  must  have  been  the 

cause  of  the  contempt.     It  galls  you,  and  well  it 


714  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

may.  But  have  patience.  Go  home  and  make  the 
worst  of  it,  and  you  are  a  made  man  from  this  time. 
Shut  yourself  up,  and — rejecting,  as  an  enemy  to 
your  peace,  every  whispering  suggestion  that  but 
insinuates  there  may  be  a  mistake — reflect  seriously 
upon  the  many  lesser  instances  which  you  had  begun 
to  perceive,  in  proof  of  your  friend's  disaffection 
towards  you.  Is^one  of  them  singly  was  much  to 
the  purpose,  but  the  aggregate  weight  is  positive ; 
and  you  have  this  last  affront  to  clench  them.  Thus 
far  the  process  is  anything  but  agreeable.  But  now 
to  your  relief  comes  the  comparative  faculty.  You 
conjure  up  all  the  kind  feelings  you  have  had  for 
your  friend  ;  what  you  have  been  to  him,  and  what 
you  would  have  been  to  him,  if  he  would  have  suf- 
fered you  ;  how  you  defended  him  in  this  or  that 
place  ;  and  his  good  name — his  literary  reputation, 
and  so  forth,  was  always  dearer  to  you  than  your 
own  !  Your  heart,  spite  of  itself,  yeams  towards 
him.  You  could  weep  tears  of  blood  but  for  a  re- 
straining pride.  How  say  you?  do  you  not  yet 
begin  to  apprehend  a  comfort? — some  allay  of 
sweetness  in  the  bitter  waters  ?  Stop  not  here,  nor 
penuriously  cheat  yourself  of  your  reversions.  You 
are  on  vantage  ground.  Enlarge  your  speculations, 
and  take  in  the  rest  of  your  friends,  as  a  spark 
kindles  more  sparks.  Was  there  one  among  them 
who  has  not  to  you  proved  hollow,  false,  slippery 
as  water?  Begin  to  think  that  the  relation  itself  is 
inconsistent  with  mortality.  That  the  very  idea  of 
friendship,  with  its  component  parts,  as  honour, 
fidelity,  steadiness,  exists  but  in  your  single  bosom. 
Image  yourself  to  yourself  as  the  only  possible  friend 
in  a  world  incapable  of  that  communion.  Now  the 
gloom  thickens.  The  little  star  of  self-love  twinkles, 
that  is  to  encourage  you  through  deeper  glooms 


POPULAR    FALLACIES.  215 

than  this.  You  are  not  yet  at  the  half  point  of  your 
elevation.  You  are  not  yet,  believe  me,  half  sulky 
enough.  Adverting  to  the  world  in  general  (as 
these  circles  in  the  mind  will  spread  to  infinity),  re- 
flect with  what  strange  injustice  you  have  been 
treated  in  quartere  where  (setting  gratitude  and  the 
expectation  of  friendly  returns  aside  as  chimeras) 
you  pretended  no  claim  beyond  justice,  the  naked 
due  of  all  men.  Think  the  very  idea  of  right  and 
fit  fled  from  the  earth,  or  your  breast  the  solitary 
receptacle  of  it  till  you  have  swelled  yourself  into 
at  least  one  hemisphere  ;  the  other  being  the  vast 
Arabia  Stony  of  your  friends  and  the  world  afore- 
said. To  grow  bigger  every  moment  in  your  own 
conceit,  and  the  world  to  lessen  ;  to  deify  yourself 
at  the  expense  of  your  species  ;  to  judge  the  world 
— this  is  the  acme  and  supreme  point  of  your  mys- 
tery— these  the  true  Pleasures  of  Sulkiness. 
We  profess  no  more  of  this  grand  secret  than  what 
ourself  experimented  on  one  rainy  afternoon  in  the 
lasrt  week,  sulking  in  our  study,  \^'e  had  proceeded 
to  the  penultimate  point,  at  which  the  true  adept 
seldom  stops,  where  the  consideration  of  benefit 
forgot  is  about  to  merge  in  the  meditation  of  general 
injustice — when  a  knock  at  the  door  was  followed 
by  the  entrance  of  the  very  friend  whose  not  seeing 
of  us  in  the  morning  (for  we  will  now  confess  the 
case  our  own),  an  accidental  oversight,  had  given 
rise  to  so  much  agreeable  generalization  !  To  mor- 
tify us  still  more,  and  take  down  the  whole  flattering 
superstructure  which  pride  had  piled  upon  neglect, 

he  had  brought  in  his  hand  the  identical  S ,  in 

whose  favour  we  had  suspected  him  of  the  contu- 
macy. Asseverations  were  needless,  where  the 
frank  manner  of  them  both  was  convictive  of  the 
injurious  nature  of  the  suspicion.    We  fancied  that 


2i6  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELI  A. 

they  perceived  our  embarrassment ;  but  were  too 
proud,  or  something  else,  to  confess  to  the  secret 
of  it.  We  had  been  but  too  lately  in  the  condition 
of  the  noble  patient  in  Argos  : — 

Qui  se  credebat  miros  audire  tragoedos, 
In  vacuo  Isetus  sessor  plausorque  theatro  - 

and  could  have  exclaimed  with  equal  reason  against 
the  friendly  hands  that  cured  us — 

Pol,  me  occidistis,  amici, 
Non  servastis,  ait ;  cui  sic  extorta  voluptas, 
Et  demptus  per  vim  mentis  gratissimus  error. 


E  L  I  A  N  A. 


A   BIOGRAPHICAL   ESSAY   ON 
ELIA. 

I NE  of  the  great  charms  of  the  "  Essays 
of  Elia  "  is  the  clearness  with  which 
they  reveal  the  author's  habits,  opinions, 
U  and  history.  We  are  told  about  Elia's 
school-days,  Elia's  friends  (almost  the  whole  alpha- 
bet of  capital  letters  comes  in  to  represent  them), 
and  Elia's  relations.  We  are  informed  what  books 
he  liked  best,  and  what  dish  he  considered  most 
delicious,  " princeps  obsoniortim."  We  are  let  into 
some  of  his  weaknesses — that  he  was  extremely 
fond  of  a  pipe  ;  that  he  was  by  no  means  "in- 
capable of  Bacchus;"  that  he  loved  lying  in  bed 
in  the  morning;  that  he  liked  sweeps.  So  con- 
stantly, indeed,  does  this  personal  element  enter 
into  Lamb's  writings  that  a  very  interesting  life 
might  be  compiled  from  them  alone.  The  diffi- 
culty is  to  know  what  to  receive  as  fact.  Charles 
Lamb  drew  largely  on  his  own  history  for  the  ma- 
terial of  his  Essays,  but  he  did  not  render  it  lite- 
rally as  if  he  were  writing  an  autobiography,  and 
were  bound  to  be  strictly  truthful  and  authentic. 
He  modified  and  transformed  his  experiences  so  as 


ELI  AN  A. 


to  produce  a  good  artistic  effect.  And  the  reader 
will  often  be  puzzled  to  determine  whether  a  state- 
ment made  with  every  appearance  of  sincerity  is 
really  true,  or  is  wholly  or  partially  fictitious.  In 
the  Appendix  to  this  volume  an  attempt  has  been 
made  to  show  what  pretensions  the  "Essays  of 
Elia  "  have  to  biographical  accuracy. 

It  has  also  been  thought  that  a  slight  outline  of 
Lamb's  history,  by  revealing  some  of  the  many 
beauties,  and  some  also  of  the  weaknesses  of  his 
character,  would  bring  the  reader  into  closer  sym- 
pathy with  Elia,  and  enhance  his  pleasure  in  pe- 
rusing the  Essays.  With  this  object  the  following 
brief  and  imperfect  sketch  has  been  written.  Those 
who  desire  further  information  about  this  charming 
writer,  and  no  less  charming  man,  may  turn  to  the 
"Recollections"  of  Lamb's  friend,  Mr.  Procter; 
or  may  spend  a  pleasant  hour  in  listening  to  Mr. 
Percy  Fitzgerald's  easy  familiar  chat.  The  inner 
life  of  Lamb,  his  moral  and  intellectual  history,  is 
best  told  in  his  own  delightful  correspondence. 

Charles  Lamb  was  born  on  February  loth,  1775, 
in  Crown  Office  Row,  in  the  Temple ;  and  there 
he  passed  the  first  seven  years  of  his  life.  He  was 
the  youngest  child  of  Mr.  John  Lamb,'  a  clerk  in 
the  employ  of  Mr.  Salt,  one  of  the  Benchers  of 
the  Inner  Temple.  Through  life  Lamb  retained  a 
strong  affection  for  the  place  where  he  was  born, 
and  everything  connected  with  it.  Its  antiquated 
monastic  air  had  from  childhood  a  deep  attraction 
for  him.  He  loved  "its  magnificent  ample  squares, 
its  classic  green  recesses,"  its  gardens,  its  fountain, 
and  its  sundial.  It  was  to  him  "  the  most  elegant 
spot  in  the  metropohs."    When  a  child,  he  was  a 

'  Lovel,  of  the  Essay  "On  some  of  the  old  Benchers,"  &C. 


ESSAV  ON  ELI  A.  an 

fjrequent  visitor  at  a  fine  old  mansion  in  Hertford- 
sliire,  called  Gilston,"  where  his  grandmother  was 
housekeeper.  If  we  are  justified  in  receiving  the 
touching  retrospect  in  "  Blakesmoor  "  as  a  substan- 
tially true  account  of  his  childish  feelings  (as  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  help  doing),  this  old  house 
must  have  had  a  powerful  influence  on  his  mind. 
He  was  "a  lonely  child,"  he  tells  us,  "and  had 
the  range  at  will  of  every  apartment;"  he  wandered 
through  its  lofty  tapestried  rooms,  filled  with  an- 
tique moth-eaten  furniture  ;  or  lay  dreaming  in  the 
stately  gardens  with  his  favourite  Cowley  in  his 
hand  ;  he  "knew  every  nook  and  corner,  wondered 
and  worshipped  everywhere." 

In  1782,  when  just  seven  years  old,  Charles  re- 
ceived a  presentation  to  the  foundation  of  Christ's 
Hospital,  where  he  remained  till  he  was  fourteen. 
Little  is  known  of  his  school -days.  H-e  was  na- 
turally of  a  shy  and  retiring  disposition,  and  all 
the  influences  to  which  he  had  been  exposed  had 
tended  to  confirm  his  reserved  and  solitary  habits, 
and  to  foster  his  early  taste  for  quiet  and  studious 
employments.  An  incurable  impediment  in  his 
speech,  which  any  excitement  rendered  painful, 
and  the  delicacy  of  his  frame,  tended  to  separate 
him  still  more  from  the  other  boys,  and  may  ac- 
count for  the  fact  that  no  intimacy  sprang  up,  at 
that  time,  between  him  and  any  of  his  schoolfel- 
lows. A  kindly  feeling,  however,  was  felt  for  him 
by  his  companions,  and  he  made  some  acquain- 
tances at  Christ's  Hospital,  whose  friendship  in 
later  years  strengthened  his  taste  for  literature, 
and  whose  society  aff'orded  some  of  the  keenest 
delights  of  his  life. 

'  Blakesmoor  in  H shire. 


KM  EL  I  Ay  A 

In  his  studies  he  progressed  well,  especially  in 
Latin  composition ;  and  would  most  likely  have 
taken  an  exhibition  and  entered  into  holy  orders 
(as  he  himself  tells  us),  had  not  the  impediment  in 
his  speech  proved  an  insuperable  obstacle.  He 
was  therefore  compelled  to  relinquish  all  thoughts 
of  the  quiet  scholastic  life  which  even  then  must 
have  been  intensely  attractive  to  him,  and  to  turn 
his  mind  to  the  uncongenial  realities  of  business. 
He  did  this  ^^^th  a  quiet  fortitude  which  distin- 
guished him  through  life,  and  which  we  cannot 
too  much  admire.  It  may,  perhaps,  not  seem  to 
many  a  very  extraordinary  sacrifice  for  a  lad  to 
give  up  the  hope  of  a  learned  education,  and  settle 
to  the  dry  labours  of  the  desk ;  but  to  Lamb  we 
cannot  doubt  it  was  a  bitter  disappointment,  and 
very  hard  indeed  to  bear.  He  already  loved  learn- 
ing and  the  ancient  seats  of  learning,  with  a  more 
than  boyish  affection.  And  it  was  not  merely  that 
he  had  to  give  up  his  favourite  pursuits,  to  lose  his 
only  congenial  associates,  and  to  see  them  entering 
on  a  course  of  life  from  which  he  was  debarred, 
but  that  he  had  to  turn  from  those  tantalizing  vi- 
sions of  loved  studies  and  pleasant  companionship, 
to  an  employment  that  was  utterly  distasteful  to 
him;  for  which  he  felt,  whether  rightly  or  not, 
that  he  was  unfit;  and  from  which  he  saw  not 
even  a  distant  prospect  of  release. 

The  first  three  years  after  he  left  Christ's  Hos- 
pital, in  1789,  were  spent  in  the  employ  of  the 
South  Sea  Company,  where  his  brother  John  (his 
senior  by  twelve  years)  held  a  position  of  trust. 
And  though  his  life  at  this  time  must  have  been 
rather  dully  passed  between  the  routine  of  a  dis- 
tasteful business,  and  the  somewhat  wearisome  ex- 
actions (however  cheerfully  submitted  to)  of  a  home 


ESSAV  ON  ELI  A.  223 

where  his  father  was  sinking  into  second  child- 
hood, and  his  mother  was  a  confirmed  invalid,  yet 
it  was  not  altogether  unenlivened  by  congenial  com- 
panionship. Pleasant  Jem  White,  immortal  be- 
nefactor of  chimney-sweepers,  was  his  frequent 
companion.  And  there  was  the  constant  inter- 
course with  his  sister  Mary,  which  now,  perhaps, 
in  the  dearth  of  other  outlets  for  the  tenderness  of 
which  his  heart  was  full,  produced  that  deep-seated 
affection  whose  history  will  live  as  long  as  the 
Essays  of  Elia.  With  Coleridge,  Lamb  had  occa- 
sionally met,  while  he  was  pursuing  his  studies  at 
Cambridge ;  but  it  was  not  till  he  came  to  live  in 
town,  when  Charles  was  at  the  India  House,  that 
the  intimacy  sprang  up  between  them  which  has 
since  become  so  celebrated.  Lamb  always  looked 
back  with  affectionate  regret  to  the  evenings  they 
used  to  spend  together  at  this  time,  in  a  little 
smoky  public-house  called  the  "Salutation  and 
Cat,"  in  Smithfield,  "beguiling  the  cares  of  life 
with  poesy."  Their  friendship  from  that  time  was 
uninterrupted,  and  they  died  within  a  few  weeks 
of  each  other.  Lamb,  indeed,  never  fully  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  Coleridge's  death.  He  would 
continually  exclaim  to  his  friends,  in  a  half  humou- 
rous, moie  than  half  melancholy,  under-tone  of  as- 
sumed surprise  or  incredulity,  "Coleridge  is  dead  ! 
Coleridge  is  dead  ! "  And  almost  the  last  words  he 
wrote  were  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  his  friend, 
perhaps  the  most  eloquent  and  touching  ever  paid 
by  one  noble-minded  man  to  another. 

Great  as  was  the  influence  the  more  eager  and 
expansive  intellect  of  Coleridge  undoubtedly  had 
on  Lamb's  mind,  it  is  impossible  to  acquiesce  in 
Sir  Thomas  Talfourd's  opinion,  that  to  him  "the 
world  is  probably  indebted  for  all  that  Lamb  has 


„,.,  ELIAiXA. 

added  to  its  sources  of  pleasure."  The  genius  of 
Elia  was  too  original  to  have  long  lain  dormant, 
even  if  it  had  not  been  aroused  by  contact  with  a 
more  active  and,  in  some  respects,  a  greater  spirit. 
Coleridge  merely  gave  an  impulse  to  Lamb's 
powers,  which,  had  they  never  met,  the  natural 
growth  of  his  understanding  would  certainly  have 
developed  in  time.  Nor,  indeed,  were  Lamb's 
finest  writings  produced  till  he  had  come  under 
more  varied  intellectual  influences  than  the  society 
of  Coleridge,  however  vast  his  powers,  and  how- 
ever extensive  his  erudition,  could  possibly  have 
supplied. 

The  poetical  talent,  which  now  became  appa- 
rent, was  probably  awakened  less  by  the  society  of 
Coleridge,  than  by  an  attachment  Lamb  formed, 
late  in  the  year  1795,  for  a  young  lady  living  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Islington.  We  know  little 
of  the  history  of  his  love.     He  speaks  frequently 

in  his  Essays  of  Alice  W n,  "the  fair  haired 

maid,"  "with  eyes  of  watchet  hue;"  but  whether 
the  half-indicated  name  was  a  real  or  assumed  one, 
or  whether  her  name  was  Anna,  to  whom  some  of 
his  love  sonnets  are  addressed,  perhaps  no  one  can 
now  determine.  Whether  his  suit  prospered  or  not, 
we  cannot  tell.  There  is  a  hint  in  one  of  Lainb's 
letters  to  Coleridge,  that  a  short  period  of  insanity, 
from  which  he  suffered  in  1796,  was  produced  by 
this  love  affair.  "My  mind  ran  upon  you  in  my 
madness,"  he  writes,  "as  much,  almost,  as  upon 
another  person  who  I  am  inclined  to  think  was  the 
more  immediate  cause  of  my  temporary  phrensy." 
However  it  was,  the  wooing  was  of  short  duration. 
In  the  autumn  of  1796  came  the  tragical  event  that 
clouded,  if  it  did  not  altogether  sadden,  the  whole 
of  his  after  life ;  and,  in  view  of  the  responsibilities 


ESSAV  Oy  ELI  A.  323 

which  it  entailed,  he  relinquished  an  attachment 
which  he  felt  would  interfere  with  their  fulfil- 
ment. 

There  was  an  hereditary  tendency  to  insanity  in 
the  Lamb  family.  Charles  himself,  it  has  been 
said,  had  for  a  short  time  suffered  from  it,  and  had 
spent  six  weeks  in  an  asylum  at  Hoxton.  The 
malady  next  seized  his  sister,  with  fatal  violence. 
Mary  Lamb,  worn  down  with  a  constant  and  ha- 
rassing struggle  with  poverty  (for  they  were  very 
poor),  had  been  for  some  time  in  bad  health,  which 
at  last  resulted  in  madness.  On  the  22nd  of  Sep- 
tember, in  a  fit  of  sudden  phrenzy,  she  seized  a 
knife  from  the  dinner-table  and  stabbed  her  bed- 
ridden mother  to  the  heart. 

At  the  coroner's  inquest,  which  was  held  next 
day,  the  jury  returned  a  verdict  of  luttacy;  and 
Mary  Lamb  was  removed  to  an  asylum,  where  she 
gradually  recovered  her  reason. 

Charles  at  first  bore  this  sudden  and  awful  blow 
with  an  unnatural  calmness,  which  perhaps  pre- 
served him  from  madness.  The  responsibility  that 
was  thrown  upon  him,  however,  soon  called  forth 
the  latent  strength  of  his  character.  He  felt,  to 
use  his  own  words,  that  he  "had  something  else 
to  do  than  regret."  He  saw  that  if  his  father  was 
to  have  those  comforts  which  his  age  and  infirmi- 
ties rendered  indispensable,  and  if  his  sister  was 
ever  to  be  restored  to  the  soothing  occupations 
and  endearments  of  home,  instead  of  being  per- 
manently consigned  to  a  mad-house,  it  must  be 
through  his  own  exertions.  His  brother  John, 
though  holding  a  lucrative  place  in  the  South  Sea 
House,  with  a  selfishness  which,  notwithstanding 
Charles's  affectionate  excuses,  it  is  impossible  to  for- 
give, never  even  hinted  a  desire  to  share  the  heavy 

11.  Q 


226  ELI  ANA 

burden  which  was  thus  cast  upon  him.  Charles 
Lamb  felt  that  he  could  not  contemplate  any  con- 
nection which  would  interfere  with  the  performance 
of  these  sacred  duties  ;  and,  in  accordance  with  this 
conviction,  his  love  for  the  unknown  "  fair-haired 
maid  "  was  deliberately  and  resolutely  sacrificed. 

During  the  few  months  that  his  father  survived 
Mrs.  Lamb's  death,  Charles  gave  up  almost  the 
whole  of  his  precious  leisure  to  him,  and  complied 
cheerfully  with  all  his  childish  caprices.  A  letter 
to  Coleridge,  dated  December  2nd,  1796,  gives  us 
a  glimpse  of  the  trials  he  had  to  undergo  to  hu- 
mour and  amuse  his  father.  "  I  am  got  home," 
he  writes,  "and,  after  repeated  games  of  cribbage, 
have  got  my  father's  leave  to  write  awhile  ;  with 
difficulty  got  it,  for  when  I  expostulated  about 
playing  any  more,  he  very  aptly  replied,  '  If  you 
won't  play  with  me,  you  might  as  well  not  come 
home  at  all.'  The  argument  was  unanswerable, 
and  I  set  to  afresh." 

Charles  Lamb's  first  care,  on  Mr.  Lamb's  death 
early  in  1796,  was  to  release  his  sister  from  confine- 
ment. This  was  opposed  by  his  brother  John,  and 
some  other  members  of  the  family,  who  thought 
that,  as  there  could  be  no  assurance  given  that  her 
madness  would  not  return,  she  ought  to  be  placed 
under  permanent  restraint.  But  Charles  was  re- 
solute ;  and,  on  his  entering  into  a  solemn  engage- 
ment that  he  would  take  care  of  her  and  support 
her  through  life,  he  was  permitted  to  remove  her 
to  his  home.  From  that  time  they  were  hardly 
separated  for  a  day,  except  when  the  return  of 
Mary  Lamb's  illness  rendered  it  necessary  that  she 
should  be  placed  under  temporary  restraint.  Llis 
income  at  this  time  was  only  a  little  more  than  a 
hundred  a-year  ;  but  he  always  had  a  reserve  fund 


ESSAY  O.V  ELI  A.  i^y 

sufficient  for  these  emergencies.  He  watched  over 
his  sister's  health  with  painful  care  ;  and  through 
life  bore  the  heartbreaking  anxiety  occasioned  by 
her  precarious  state,  and  frequent  relapses — and 
which,  to  a  man  of  his  exquisite  sensibility,  must 
have  been  so  much  more  terrible  than  the  presence 
of  any  actual  misfortune — if  not  without  a  murmur, 
yet  with  a  loving  effort  to  spare  her  the  knowledge 
of  the  anguish  he  sometimes  endured.  Perhaps 
this  life-long  devotion  was  more  truly  heroic  even 
than  the  sacrifice  of  his  love.  Many  a  man  ca- 
pable of  the  one  act  of  self-abnegation  might  yet 
have  missed  this  loving 

to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  need. 

Mary  Lamb  was  always  conscious  of  the  ap- 
proach of  her  illnesses,  and  submitted  voluntarily 
to  medical  treatment.  Charles  Lloyd  once  met 
the  brother  and  sister  in  the  fields  near  Hoxton, 
both  weeping  bitterly,  walking  hand  in  hand  to- 
wards the  asylum. 

Charles  Lamb's  first  efforts  in  literature  were 
poetical.  In  1797,  in  conjunction  with  Coleridge 
and  Charles  Lloyd,  he  published  a  few  poems  and 
sonnets  ;  and,  in  1798,  appeared  a  little  volume 
entitled  "Blank  Verse,  by  Charles  Lloyd  and 
Charles  Lamb."  His  poetry  never  excited  much 
attention ;  and  though  it  was  perhaps  undeservedly 
sneered  at  by  reviews,  there  can  be  little  doubt  it 
would  have  been  forgotten  long  ago  if  it  had  not 
been  written  by  the  author  of  the  "  Essays  of 
Elia."  His  sonnets  can  hardly  be  called  more 
than  pleasing ;  but  some  of  his  miscellaneous 
pieces,  such  as  "Hester,"  "The  Old  Familiar 
Faces,"  "The  Farewell   to   Tobacco,"  "On  an 


228  EL  IAN  A. 

Infant  Dying  as  soon  as  Bom,"  are  certainly  far 
above  the  average  of  modern  verse. 

In  1798,  also,  appeared  the  simple  and  touching 
tale,  "  Rosamund  Gray ;"  and  the  following  year 
found  Lamb.busy  with  his  tragedy,  "  John  Wood- 
vil."  It  was  submitted  when  finished  to  John 
Kemble,  who  was  then  manager  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  but  was  rejected.  The  farce,  "  Mr.  H.," 
Lamb's  only  other  considerable  dramatic  attempt, 
met  with  scarcely  a  better  fate.  It  was  accepted, 
produced,  and  decisively  damned  on  the  first  night. 

The  "Essays  of  Elia, "on  which  alone  Lamb's 
claim  to  a  name  great  in  literature  can  be  founded, 
were  almost  all  published  during  the  last  fourteen 
years  of  his  life.  He  was  then  in  the  maturity  of 
his  powers,  and  he  poured  forth  his  original 
thoughts  and  quaint  fancies  with  a  richness  and 
variety  which  no  other  essayist  has  ever  rivalled. 
He  had  every  qualification  for  an  essayist.  He 
had  learnt  English  from  the  best  teachers — the 
old  writers ;  and  he  had  been  an  apt  scholar, — 
not  accumulating  merely,  but  assimilating  what 
he  learnt.  His  early  style  (as  in  "John  Wood* 
vil,"  for  instance,)  is  often  antiquated  ;  but  in  the 
"  Essays  of  Elia"  there  is  no  trace  of  an  excessive 
or  servile  adherence  to  the  manner  of  his  models. 
Few  writers,  indeed,  have  had  a  more  real  com- 
mand of  English  than  Lamb  had.  He  was  not 
restrained  or  impeded  by  the  exigencies  of  the 
language;  he  rather  controlled  it,  and  moulded  it, 
so  to  speak,  to  his  purposes.  It  might  be  possible, 
by  a  careful  study  and  imitation  of  Addison  or 
Goldsmith,  to  form  a  good  independent  style  of 
composition.  Their  English  is  flexible;  it  can 
adapt  itself,  without  much  difficulty  (except,  of 
course,  on  account  of  its  surpassing  beauty),  to  the 


ESSAY  ON  ELIA.  129 

peculiarities  of  other  minds.  It  is  not  so  with 
Charles  Lamb's  writings.  His  style  is  rigid,  and 
cannot  be  copied  or  adapted.  It  is  Ella's  English. 
To  imitate  it  would  be  mere  mimicry.  Some- 
times it  almost  seems  as  if  the  impediment  in 
Lamb's  speech  had  influenced  his  style.  His  sen- 
tences are  often  very  short,  with  frequent  and  long 
pauses;  but  brilliant,  suggestive.  His  ideas  suc- 
ceed each  other  with  wonderful  richness  and  pro- 
fusion: they  seem  to  spring  perfect  from  the  brain. 
But  these  curt  and  broken  sentences  are  merely 
used  by  Elia  as  means  to  produce  a  desired  effect. 
The  pauses  were  the  "halting-stones  and  resting- 
places  "  of  his  wit.  There  were  no  "  ligaments  " 
that  bound  him  when  the  pen  was  in  his  hand. 
Uo  one  could  write  more  sweet  or  flowing  English 
than  he. 

It  would  be  useless  to  cite  instances  of  Elia's 
wonderful  refinement  of  thought  and  mastery  of 
expression.  The  essay  on  the  popular  mistake, 
"that  we  should  rise  with  the  lark,"  is  perhaps 
his  masterpiece  in  this  respect.  What  an  array  of 
fast-flocking,  delightful  images,  too  delicate  almost 
for  laughter,  does  this  inimitably  witty  little  piece 
conjure  up  before  the  mind  !  The  pathos  and  the 
humour  of  Elia  are  alike  admirable,  It  cannot  be 
said  that  he  excelled  more  in  the  one  than  in  the 
other;  for  it  is  impossible  to  compare  styles  so 
dissimilar  as,  for  instance,  the  "  Dissertation  upon 
Roast  Pig,"  and  the  thoughts  upon  the  homes  of 
the  poor,  "  that  are  no  homes,"  and  the  children 
of  the  poor,  that  are  never  young.  Both  are  per- 
fect in  their  way.  In  the  richness  of  his  humour 
and  the  depth  of  his  pathos  Elia  stands,  amongst 
essayists,  unrivalled — 

With  tears  and  laughters  for  all  time. 


230  ELI  AN  A. 

It  would  be  tedious  to  enlarge  further  on  the 
various  characteristics  of  this  delightful  author.  It 
should  never  be  forgotten  that  the  "Essays  of 
Elia  "  require  to  be  studied  in  order  to  be  tho- 
roughly understood  and  enjoyed.  It  is  a  great 
mistake  to  suppose  that  they  are  a  light  and  flimsy 
sort  of  reading,  that  is  to  be  carelessly  glanced 
through  and  then  laid  aside :  this  is  to  miss  their 
greatest  beauties  and  their  highest  use. 

Even  a  short  sketch  of  Lamb's  life,  such  as  this, 
would  be  culpably  imperfect  did  we  omit  all 
mention  of  those  companions  whose  affection 
cheered  and  brightened  his  existence,  and  made  it, 
on  the  whole,  a  happy  one.  It  seems,  in  reading 
his  life,  as  if  no  one  else  can  ever  have  had  such 
love  and  honour  paid  him, — such  troops  of  almost 
idolizing  friends.  No  mere  eccentricity  of  cha- 
racter or  position  debarred  any  one  from  Lamb's 
intimacy.  The  list  of  his  friends  includes  Cole- 
ridge, Wordsworth,  Hazlitt,  Leigh  Hunt,  Godwin, 
Bernard  Barton,  Talfourd,  Southey,  Thelwall, 
Manning,  Charles  Lloyd,  H.  C.  Robinson,  Dyer, 
Barry  Cornwall,  and  a  host  of  others.  All  these 
men,  celebrated  or  unknown,  with  their  conflicting 
opinions,  various  oddities,  and  repelling  diff"erences, 
seem  to  have  gathered  round  Charles  Lamb  as  a 
common  centre  where  the  discordant  elements 
could  meet  in  harmony.  It  was  this  made  Lamb's 
Wednesday  evenings  so  delightful. 

There  is  a  weakness  of  Charles  Lamb's,  closely 
connected  with  his  social  habits,  which  ought  not 
to  be  unnoticed — his  fondness  for  spirituous  liquors. 
This  failing  of  his  has  often  been  greatly  exagge- 
rated, but  there  is  no  doubt  it  existed.  The  fact 
seems  to  be  that  Lamb  had  a  constitutional  craving 
br  e.xhilaratmg  drinks ;  and  the  relief  they  gave 


£SSAy  ON  ELI  A.  231 

him  from  the  dreadful  anxiety  and  depression 
caused  by  his  sister's  precarious  health  and  often- 
recurring  illness,  tempted  him  to  indulge  in  them 
to  an  extent  which, — while  it  would  have  been 
moderation  to  a  stronger  man, — to  his  delicate 
and  sensitive  organization  was  excess.  It  was  not 
the  mere  excitement  of  drinking  that  fascinated 
him:  it  was  the  relaxation,  the  forgetfulness  of 
care,  the  confidence,  the  ready  flow  of  words  to 
embody  the  conceptions  of  his  ever-fruitful  fancy, 
that  gave  an  almost  irresistible  charm  to  brandy- 
and-water.  At  one  time,  he  and  his  sister  re- 
solved to  give  up  alcoholic  drinks  altogether.  As 
for  Maiy,  he  informed  iVIiss  Wordsworth,  "she 
has  taken  to  water  like  a  hungry  otter.  I,  too, 
limp  after  her  in  lame  imitation,  but  it  goes  against 
me  a  little  at  first.  I  have  been  acquaintance  with 
it  now  for  full  four  days,  and  it  seems  a  moon.  I 
am  full  of  cramps  and  rheumatisms,  and  cold  in- 
ternally, so  that  fire  won't  warm  me ;  yet  I  bear 
all  for  virtue's  sake."  Total  abstinence  plainly 
did  not  agree  with  him,  and  was  soon  given  up. 
Another  of  Lamb's  weaknesses  was  smoking.  Of 
this  habit,  after  several  fruitless  attempts,  he  really 
succeeded  in  breaking  himself.  His  "Farewell  to 
Tobacco,"  written  during  one  of  these  ineffectual 
struggles,  shows  with  what  feeling  Lamb  regarded 
the  "  Great  Plant." 

Some  fragments  of  Lamb's  stammering  talk,  in 
which  thought  and  feeling  and  quaint  humour  so 
strangely  mingled,  have  been  preserved.  They 
are,  naturally,  almost  all  pieces  of  broad  fun,  and 
can  give  no  idea  of  the  ordinary  style  of  his  con- 
versation. The  maddest  quibble  even  he  ever 
uttered  was  surely  the  answer  he  gave  to  a  lady 
who  had  been  boring  him  with  a  rather  fatiguing 


dissertation  upon  lier  love  for  lier  children  :  "And 
pray,  Mr.  Lamb,"  said  she  at  last,  "  how  do  fou 
like  children?"     "  B-b-boiled,  ma'am!" 

In  1825,  Lamb  was  released  from  his  drudgery 
at  the  India  House,  and  retired  upon  a  pension 
amounting  to  two-thirds  of  his  salary.  He  survived 
nine  years.  The  illness  that  ultimately  proved  fatal 
was  caused  by  a  fall,  which  induced  erysipelas  in 
the  head.  He  sank  rapidly,  and  died  on  the  27th 
of  December,  1834,  only  five  days  after  the  acci- 
dent occurred.  His  sister  Mary  survived  him 
several  years. 

I  think  Charles  Lamb's  right  place  in  literature 
is  with  Goldsmith,  and  a  few  others,  among  writers 
that  we  love.  There  may  be  loftier  niches  in  the 
Temple  of  Fame,  but  none,  we  may  be  sure,  in 
which  Elia  would  rather  have  chosen  to  stand.  We 
read  Shakespeare,  and  the  deepest  impression  left  on 
our  mind  is  a  feeling  of  wonder  that  one  human  mind 
could  ever  have  conceived  and  v/ritten  his  plays 
and  poems.  Do  we  love  Shakespeare  ?  Does  any 
one  ever  feel  intimate  with  him  ?  Do  we  attempt 
to  shape  him  in  the  mind's  eye  at  all  ?  Is  he  not 
rather  an  abstraction — the  dramatist— the  vague 
outlines  of  whose  fomi  we  never  try  to  resolve  into 
something  clear  and  definite  ?  Of  course  v/e  have 
all  seen  pictures  of  Shakespeare  :  massive  features, 
surmounted  by  a  lofty  forehead  ;  a  pointed  beard. 
We  recognize  him  at  a  glance.  But  does  the  fa- 
miliar face  ever  rise  up  before  us  in  reading  his 
I  plays?  Do  we  ever  think  of  Shakespeare  then? 
And  do  we  feel  anything  like  the  pleasure  in  a 
portrait  of  Shakespeare  that  we  do  in  looking  at 
Goldsmith's  ugly  face,  redeemed  by  its  touching 
expression  of  impending  pain  ? 

Do  we  love  Milton?     I  think  not.     We  reve- 


ESSAV  ON  ELI  A.  233 

rence\i\\\\.  When  we  read  his  sonnet  on  his  blind- 
ness, or  on  his  deceased  wife,  is  not  the  natural 
emotion  of  pity  for  the  man  altogether  overwhelmed 
by  our  admiration  of  the  power  of  the  poet  ?  It 
would  not  be  so  if  we  really  loved  him.  Do  we 
feel  anytliing  like  the  interest  in  Shakespeare's  or 
in  Milton's  life  that  we  do  in  Goldsmith's?  And 
does  not  the  interest  we  do  feel  arise  from  curiosity 
rather  than  affection  ?  We  may  know  too  much  of 
them.  They  do  not  appeal  to  us  as  men,  but  as 
writers.  We  can  derive  no  additional  pleasure 
from  their  works  by  knowing  their  history ;  but  it 
might  be  a  severe  shock  to  discover  that  they  were 
subject  to  the  common  weaknesses  and  failings  of 
mankind.  It  is  better  our  thoughts  of  them  should 
be  vague. 

But  with  Goldsmith  and  Charles  Lamb  it  is  not 
so.  We  cannot  know  too  much  of  them.  We 
cannot  spare  one  touch  from  the  picture  ;  not  even 
a  defect.  They  appeal  to  us  not  only  as  writers, 
but  as  men.  We  do  not  feel  it  a  shock  to  discover 
their  weaknesses.  They  live  in  their  writings  ; 
they  become  our  friends  ;  they  possess  our  hearts 
by  virtue  of  their  complete  humanity ;  they  recon- 
cile us  with  the  imperfections  of  our  common 
nature ;  their  very  failings  endear  them  to  us  the 
more. 

There  may  be  a  literary  immortality  superior  to 
ihis,  but  there  can  hardly  be  one  more  attractive. 
The  heights  on  which  Shakespeare  and  Milton 
stand  are  lofty,  unattainable,  dazzling — but  cold ; 
they  are  too  high  for  sympathy  to  reach.  For 
Charles  Lamb  we  love  to  anticipate  a  warmer 
place — a  home  in  the  popular  heart.  The  Essays 
will  be  like  the  books  of  which  Elia  speaks  so  de- 
lightfully : — "  How  beautiful  to  a  genuine  lover  of 


234  ELIANA. 

reading  are  the  sullied  leaves  and  worn-out  appear- 
ance, nay,  the  very  odour  (beyond  russia),  if  we 
would  not  forget  kind  feelings  in  fastidiousness,  of 
an  old  circulating-library  '  Tom  Jones  '  or  '  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  ! '  How  they  speak  of  the  thousand 
thumbs  that  have  turned  over  their  pages  with  de- 
light !  .  .  .  .  Who  would  have  them  a  whit  less 
soiled?  What  better  condition  could  we  desire 
to  see  them  in  ?  " 

H.  S. 


E  L  I  A  N  A. 


THE    GENTLE   GIANTESS. 


f|HE  Widow  Blacket,  of  Oxford,  is  the 
largest  female  I  ever  had  the  pleasure  of 
beholding.  There  may  be  her  parallel 
upon  the  earth  ;  but  surely  I  never  saw 
it.  1  take  her  to  be  lineally  descended  from  the 
maid's  aunt  of  Brainford,  who  caused  Master  Ford 
such  uneasiness.  She  hath  Atlantean  shoulders  ; 
and,  as  she  stoopeth  in  her  gait, — with  as  few  of- 
fences to  answer  for  in  her  own  particular  as  any  of 
Eve's  daughters, — her  back  seems  broad  enough  to 
bear  the  blame  of  all  the  peccadilloes  that  have 
been  committed  since  Adam,  She  girdeth  her 
waist — or  what  she  is  pleased  to  esteem  as  such — 
nearly  up  to  her  shoulders ;  from  beneath  which 
that  huge  dorsal  expanse,  in  mountainous  declivity, 
emergeth.  Respect  for  her  alone  preventeth  the 
idle  boys,  who  follow  her  about  in  shoals,  whenever 
she  Cometh  abroad,  from  getting  up,  and  riding. 
But  her  presence  infallibly  commands  a  reverence. 
She  is  indeed,  as  the  Americans  would  express  it, 


236  ELIANA. 

something  awful.  Her  person  is  a  burden  to  herself 
no  less  than  to  the  ground  which  bears  her.  To  her 
mighty  bone,  she  hath  a  pinguitude  withal,  which 
makes  the  depth  of  winter  to  her  the  most  desirable 
season.  Her  distress  in  the  warmer  solstice  is  piti- 
able. During  the  months  of  July  and  August,  she 
usually  renteth  a  cool  cellar,  where  ices  are  kept, 
whereinto  she  descendeth  when  Sirius  rageth.  She 
dates  from  a  hot  Thursday, — some  twenty-five  years 
ago.  Her  apartment  in  summer  is  pervious  to  the 
four  winds.  Two  doors,  in  north  and  south  direc- 
tion, and  two  windows,  fronting  the  rising  and  the 
setting  sun,  never  closed,  from  every  cardinal  point 
catch  the  contributory  breezes.  She  loves  to  enjoy 
what  she  calls  a  quadruple  draught.  That  must  be 
a  shrewd  zephyr  that  can  escape  her.  I  owe  a 
painful  face-ache,  which  oppresses  me  at  this  mo- 
ment, to  a  cold  caught,  sitting  by  her,  one  day  in 
last  July,  at  this  receipt  of  coolness.  Her  fan,  in 
ordinary,  resembleth  a  banner  spread,  which  she 
keepeth  continually  on  the  alert  to  detect  the  least 
breeze.  She  possesseth  an  active  and  gadding  mind, 
totally  incommensurate  with  her  person.  No  one 
delighteth  more  than  herself  in  country  exercises 
and  pastimes.  I  have  passed  many  an  agreeable 
holy-day  with  her  in  her  favourite  park  at  Wood- 
stock. She  performs  her  part  in  these  delightful 
ambulatory  excursions  by  the  aid  of  a  portable 
garden-chair.  She  setteth  out  with  you  at  a  fair 
foot-gallop,  which  she  keepeth  up  till  you  are  both 
well  breathed,  and  then  reposeth  she  for  a  few 
seconds.  Then  she  is  up  again  for  a  hundred  paces 
or  so,  and  again  resteth  ;  her  movement,  on  these 
sprightly  occasions,  being  something  between  walk- 
ing and  flying.  Her  great  weight  seemeth  to  propel 
her  forward,  ostrich-fashion.     In  this  kind  of  re- 


THE   GENTLE  GIANTESS.  237 

lieved  marching,  I  have  traversed  with  her  many 
scores  of  acres  on  those  vi^ell- wooded  and  well- 
watered  domains.  Her  delight  at  Oxford  is  in  the 
public  walks  and  gardens,  where,  when  the  weather 
is  not  too  oppressive,  she  passeth  much  of  her  valu- 
able time.     There  is  a  bench  at  Maudlin,  or  rather 

situated  between  the  frontiers  of  that  and 's 

College  (some  litigation,  latterly,  about  repairs,  has 

vested  the  property  of  it  finally  in  's),  where, 

at  the  hour  of  noon,  she  is  ordinarily  to  be  found 
sitting, — so  she  calls  it  by  courtesy,— but,  in  fact, 
pressing  and  breaking  of  it  down  with  her  enormous 
settlement ;  as  both  those  foundations, — who,  how- 
ever, are  good-natured  enough  to  wink  at  it, — have 
found,  I  believe,  to  their  cost.  Here  she  taketh  the 
fresh  air,  principally  at  vacation-times,  when  the 
walks  are  freest  from  interruption  of  the  younger 
fry  of  students.  Here  she  passeth  her  idle  hours, 
not  idly,  but  generally  accompanied  with  a  book, 
— blessed  if  she  can  but  intercept  some  resident 
Fellow  (as  usually  there  are  some  of  that  brood  left 
behind  at  these  periods),  or  stray  Master  of  Arts 
(to  most  of  whom  she  is  better  known  than  their 
dinner-bell),  with  whom  she  may  confer  upon  any 
curious  topic  of  literature.  I  have  seen  these  shy 
gownsmen,  who  truly  set  but  a  very  slight  value 
upon  female  conversation,  cast  a  hawk's  eye  upon 
her  from  the  length  of  Maudlin  Grove,  and  warily 
glide  off  into  another  walk, — true  monks  as  they 
are  ;  and  ungently  neglecting  the  delicacies  of  her 
polished  converse  for  their  own  perverse  and  un- 
communicating  solitariness !  Within-doors,  her 
principal  diversion  is  music,  vocal  and  instru- 
mental ;  in  both  which  she  is  no  mean  professor. 
Her  voice  is  wonderfully  fine  ;  but,  till  I  got  used 
to  it,  I  confess  it  staggered  me.     It  is,  for  all  the 


238  ELIANA. 

world,  like  that  of  a  piping  bullfinch ;  while,  from 
her  size  and  stature,  you  would  expect  notes  to 
drown  the  deep  organ.  The  shake,  which  most  fine 
singers  reserve  for  the  close  or  cadence,  by  some 
unaccountable  flexibility,  or  tremulousness  of  pipe, 
she  carrieth  quite  through  the  composition  :  so  that 
her  time,  to  a  common  air  or  ballad,  keeps  double 
motion,  like  the  earth, — running  the  primary  circuit 
of  the  tune,  and  still  revolving  upon  its  own  axis. 
The  effect,  as  I  said  before,  when  you  are  used  to 
ft,  is  as  agreeable  as  it  is  altogether  new  and  sur- 
prising. The  spacious  apartment  of  her  outward 
frame  lodgeth  a  soul  in  all  respects  disproportionate. 
Of  more  than  mortal  make,  she  evinceth  withal  a 
trembling  sensibility,  ayielding  infirmity  of  purpose, 
a  quick  susceptibility  to  reproach,  and  all  the  train 
of  diffident  and  blushing  virtues,  which  for  their 
habitation  usually  seek  out  a  feeble  frame,  an  at- 
tenuated and  meagre  constitution.  With  more  than 
man's  bulk,  her  humours  and  occupations  are  emi- 
nently feminine.  She  sighs, — being  six  foot  high. 
She  languisheth, — being  two  feet  wide.  She 
worketh  slender  sprigs  upon  the  delicate  muslin, — 
her  fingers  being  capable  of  moulding  a  Colossus. 
She  sippeth  her  wine  out  of  her  glass  daintily, — 
her  capacity  being  that  of  a  tun  of  Heidelberg.  She 
goeth  mincingly  with  those  feet  of  hers,  whose 
solidity  need  not  fear  the  black  ox's  pressure.  Softest 
and  largest  of  thy  sex,  adieu  !  By  what  parting 
attribute  may  I  salute  thee,  last  and  best  of  the 
Titanesses, — Ogress,  fed  with  milk  instead  of 
blood  ;  not  least,  or  least  handsome,  among  Ox- 
ford's stately  structures, — Oxford,  who,  in  its 
deadest  time  of  vacation,  can  never  properly  be 
said  to  be  empty,  having  thee  to  fill  it. 


THE    REYNOLDS   GALLERY. 


HE  Reynolds  Gallery  has,  upon  tlie 
whole,  disappointed  me.  Some  of  the 
portraits  are  interesting.  They  are  faces 
of  characters  whom  we  (middle-aged 
gentlemen)  were  born  a  little  too  late  to  remem- 
ber, but  about  whom  we  have  heard  our  fathers 
tell  stories  till  we  almost  fancy  to  have  seen  them. 
There  is  a  charm  in  the  portrait  of  a  Rodney  or  a 
Keppel,  which  even  a  picture  of  Nelson  must  want 
for  me.  I  should  turn  away  after  a  slight  inspec- 
tion from  the  best  likeness  that  could  be  made  of 
Mrs.  Anne  Clarke  ;  but  Kitty  Fisher  is  a  consider- 
able personage.  Then  the  dresses  of  some  of  the 
women  so  exactly  remind  us  of  modes  which  we 
can  just  recall ;  of  the  forms  under  which  the  vene- 
rable relationship  of  aunt  or  mother  first  presented 
themselves  to  our  young  eyes  ;  the  aprons,  the  coifs, 
the  lappets,  the  hoods.  Mercy  on  us  !  what  a  load 
of  head-ornaments  seem  to  have  conspired  to  bury 
a  pretty  face  in  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Long,  jr^  cotdd 
not  I  Beauty  must  have  some  "charmed  life  "  to 
have  been  able  to  surmount  the  conspiracy  of 
fashion  in  those  days  to  destroy  it. 

The  portraits  which  least  pleased  me  were  those 
of  boys,  as  infant  Bacchuses,  Jupiters,  &c.    But  the 


240  ELI  ANA. 

artist  is  not  to  be  blamed  for  the  disguise.  No 
doubt,  the  parents  wished  to  see  their  children 
deified  in  their  lifetime.  It  was  but  putting  a  thun- 
derbolt (instead  of  a  squib)  into  young  master's 
hands  ;  and  a  whey-faced  chit  was  transfomned  into 
the  infant  ruler  of  Olympus, — him  who  was  after- 
wards to  shake  heaven  and  earth  with  his  black 
brow.  Another  good  boy  pleased  his  grandmamma 
with  saying  his  prayers  so  well,  and  the  blameless 
dotage  of  the  good  old  woman  imagined  in  him  an 
adequate  representative  of  the  infancy  of  the  awful 
Prophet  Samuel.  But  the  great  historical  com- 
positions, where  the  artist  was  at  liberty  to  paint 
from  his  own  idea, — the  Beaufort  and  the  Ugolino: 
why,  then,  I  must  confess,  pleading  the  liberty  of 
table-talk  for  my  presumption,  that  they  have  not 
left  any  very  elevating  impressions  on  my  mind. 
Pardon  a  ludicrous  comparison.  I  know,  madam, 
you  admire  them  both  ;  but  placed  opposite  to  each 
other  as  they  are  at  the  Gallery,  as  if  to  set  the  one 
work  in  competition  with  the  other,  they  did  re- 
mind me  of  the  famous  contention  for  the  prize  of 
deformity,  mentioned  in  the  173rd  number  of  the 
"  Spectator."  The  one  stares,  and  the  other  grins  ; 
but  is  there  common  dignity  in  their  countenances  ? 
Does  anything  of  the  history  of  their  life  gone  by 
peep  through  the  ruins  of  the  mind  in  the  face,  like 
the  "unconquerable  grandeur  that  surmounts  the  dis- 
tortions of  the  Laocoon  ?  The  figures  which  stand 
by  the  bed  of  Beaufort  are  indeed  happy  represen- 
tations of  the  plain  unmannered  old  nobility  of  the 
English  historical  plays  of  Shakespeare  ;  but,  for 
anything  else,  give  me  leave  to  recommend  those 
macaroons. 

After  leaving  the  Reynolds  Gallery  (where,  upon 
"the  whole,  I  received  a  good  deal  of  pleasure),  and 


THE  REYNOLDS  GALLERY.  241 

feeling  that  I  had  quite  had  my  fill  of  paintings,  I 
stumbled  upon  a  picture  in  Piccadilly  (No.  22,  I 
think),  which  purports  to  be  a  portrait  of  Francis 
the  First  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  Heavens,  what  a 
difference  !  It  is  but  a  portrait,  as  most  of  those  I 
had  been  seeing ;  but,  placed  by  them,  it  would 
kill  them,  swallow  them  up  as  Moses'  rod  the  other 
lods.  Where  did  these  old  painters  get  their  models? 
I  see  no  such  figures,  not  in  my  dreams,  as  this 
Francis,  in  the  character,  or  rather  with  the  attri- 
butes of  John  the  Baptist.  A  more  than  martial 
majesty  in  the  brow  and  upon  the  eyelid  ;  an  arm 
muscular,  beautifully  formed ;  the  long,  graceful, 
massy  fingers  compressing,  yet  so  as  not  to  hurt,  a 
Iamb  more  lovely,  more  sweetly  shrinking,  than  we 
can  conceive  that  milk-white  one  which  followed 
Una  ;  the  picture  altogether  looking  as  if  it  were 
eternal, — combining  the  truth  of  flesh  with  a  pro- 
mise of  permanence  like  marble. 

Leonardo,  from  the  one  or  two  specimens  we 
have  of  him  in  England,  must  have  been  a  stupen- 
dous genius.  I  scarce  can  think  he  has  had  his  full 
fame, — he  who  could  paint  that  wonderful  personi- 
fication of  the  Logos,  or  third  person  of  the  Trinity, 
grasping  a  globe,  late  in  the  possession  of  Mr, 
Troward  of  Pall  Mall,  where  the  hand  was,  by  the 
boldest  license,  twice  as  big  as  the  truth  of  drawing 
warranted  ;  yet  the  effect,  to  every  one  that  saw  it, 
by  some  magic  of  genius  was  confessed  to  be  not 
monstrous,  but  miraculous  and  silencing.  It  could 
not  be  gainsaid. 


IL 


GUY  FAUX. 


VERY  ingenious  and  subtle  writer, 
whom  there  is  good  reason  for  sus- 
pecting to  be  an  ex-Jesuit,  not  unknown 

at   Douay  some  five-and-twenty  years 

since  (he  will  not  obtrude  himself  at  M th  again 

in  a  hurry),  about  a  twelvemonth  back  set  himself 
to  prove  the  character  of  the  Powder  Plot  con- 
spirators to  have  been  that  of  heroic  self-devoted- 
ness  and  true  Christian  martyrdom.  Under  the 
mask  of  Protestant  candour,  he  actually  gained  ad- 
mission for.his  treatise  into  a  London  weekly  paper 
not  particularly  distinguished  for  its  zeal  towards 
either  religion.  But,  admitting  Catholic-principles, 
his  arguments  are  shrewd  and  incontrovertible.  He 
says  : — 

"  Guy  Faux  was  a  fanatic  ;  but  he  was  no  hypo- 
crite. He  ranks  among  good  haters.  He  was  cruel, 
bloody-minded,  reckless  of  all  considerations  but 
those  of  an  infuriated  and  bigoted  faith  ;  but  he 
was  a  true  son  of  the  Catholic  Church,  a  martyr, 
and  a  confessor,  for  all  that.  He  who  can  prevail 
upon  himself  to  devote  his  life  for  a  cause,  however 
we  may  condemn  his  opinions  or  abhor  his  actions, 
vouches  at  least  for  the  honesty  of  his  principles  and 
the  disinterestedness  of  his  motives.     He  may  l)e 


GUV  FAUX.  243 

guilty  of  the  worst  practices  ;  but  he  is  capable  of 
the  greatest.  He  is  no  longer  a  slave,  but  free. 
The  contempt  of  death  is  the  beginning  of  virtue. 
The  hero  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot  was,  if  you  will,  a 
fool,  a  madman,  an  assassin  ;  call  him  what  names 
you  please  :  still  he  was  neither  knave  nor  coward. 
He  did  not  propose  to  blow  up  the  parliament,  and 
come  oft'  scotfree  himself :  he  showed  that  he  valued 
his  own  life  no  more  than  theirs  in  such  a  cause, 
where  the  integrity  of  the  Catholic  faith  and  the 
salvation  of  perhaps  millions  of  souls  was  at  stake. 
He  did  not  call  it  a  murder,  but  a  sacrifice,  which 
he  was  about  to  achieve  :  he  was  armed  with  the 
Holy  Spirit  and  with  fire  :  he  was  the  Church's 
chosen  servant  and  her  blessed  martyr.  He  com- 
forted himself  as  'the  best  of  cut-throats.'  How 
many  wretches  are  there  that  would  have  under- 
taken to  do  what  he  intended,  for  a  sum  of  money, 
if  they  could  have  got  off"  with  impunity  !  How  few 
are  there  who  would  have  put  themselves  in  Guy 
Faux's  situation  to  save  the  universe  !  Yet,  in  the 
latter  case,  we  affect  to  be  thrown  into  greater  con- 
sternation than  at  the  most  unredeemed  acts  of 
villany  ;  as  if  the  absolute  disinterestedness  of  the 
motive  doubled  the  horror  of  the  deed  !  The 
cowardice  and  selfishness  of  mankind  are  in  fact 
shocked  at  the  consequences  to  themselves  (if  such 
examples  are  held  up  for  imitation) ;  and  they  make 
a  fearful  outcry  against  the  violation  of  every  prin- 
ciple of  morality,  lest  they,  too,  should  be  called 
on  for  any  such  tremendous  sacrifices  ;  lest  they,  in 
their  turn,  should  have  to  go  on  the  forlorn  hope  of 
extra-official  duty.  Charity  begins  at  home  is  a 
maxim  that  prevails  a.s  well  in  the  courts  of  con- 
science as  in  those  of  prudence.  We  would  be 
thought  to  shudder  at  the  consequences  of  crime  to 


444  ELI  AN  A. 

others,  while  we  tremble  for  them  to  ourselves.  We 
talk  of  the  dark  and  cowardly  assassin  ;  and  this  is 
well,  when  an  individual  shrinks  from  the  face  of 
an  enemy,  and  purchases  his  own  safety  by  striking 
a  blow  in  the  dark  :  but  how  the  charge  of  cowardly 
can  be  applied  to  the  public  assassin,  who,  in  the 
very  act  of  destroying  another,  lays  down  his  life  as 
the  pledge  and  forfeit  of  his  sincerity  and  boldness, 
I  am  at  a  loss  to  devise.  There  may  be  barbarous 
prejudice,  rooted  hatred,  unprincipled  treachery  in 
such  an  act ;  but  he  who  resolves  to  take  all  the 
danger  and  odium  upon  himself  can  no  more  be 
branded  with  cowardice,  than  Regulus  devoting 
himself  for  his  country,  or  Codrus  leaping  into  the 
fiery  gulf.  A  wily  Father  Inquisitor,  coolly  and 
with  plenary  authority  condemning  hundreds  of 
helpless,  unoffending  victims  to  the  flames,  or  the 
horrors  of  a  living  tomb,  while  he  himself  would 
not  suffer  a  hair  of  his  head  to  be  hurt,  is,  to  me,  a 
character  without  any  qualifying  trait  in  it.  Again  : 
The  Spanish  conqueror  and  hero,  the  favourite  of 
his  monarch,  who  enticed  thirty  thousand  poor 
Mexicans  into  a  large  open  building  under  promise 
of  strict  faith  and  cordial  good-will,  and  then  set 
fire  to  it,  making  sport  of  the  cries  and  agonies  of 
these  deluded  creatures,  is  an  instance  of  uniting 
the  most  hardened  cruelty  with  the  most  heartless 
selfishness.  His  plea  was,  keeping  no  faith  with 
heretics  ;  this  was  Guy  Faux's  too  :  but  I  am  sure 
at  least  that  the  latter  kept  faith  with  himself;  he 
was  in  earnest  in  his  professions.  His  was  not  gay, 
wanton,  unfeeling  depravity ;  he'did  not  murder  in 
sport :  it  was  serious  work  that  he  had  taken  in 
hand.  To  see  this  arch-bigot,  this  heart-whole 
traitor,  this  pale  miner  in  the  infernal  regions, 
skulking  in  his  retreat  with  his  cloak  and  dark 


GUY  FAUX.  245 

lantern,  moving  cautiously  about  among  his  barrels 
of  gimpowder  loaded  with  death,  but  not  yet  ripe 
for  destruction,  regardless  of  the  lives  of  others, 
and  more  than  indifferent  to  his  own,  presents  a 
picture  of  the  strange  infatuation  of  the  human  un- 
derstanding, but  not  of  the  depravity  of  the  human 
will,  without  an  equal.  There  were  thousands  of 
pious  Papists  privy  to  and  ready  to  applaud  the 
deed  when  done  :  there  was  no  one  but  our  old 
fifth-of-November  friend,  who  still  flutters  in  rags 
and  straw  on  the  occasion,  that  had  the  courage  to 
attempt  it.  In  him  stern  duty  and  unshaken  faith 
prevailed  over  natural  frailty. " 

It  is  impossible,  upon  Catholic  principles,  not  to 
admit  the  force  of  this  reasoning  :  we  can  only  not 
help  smiling  (with  the  -WTiter)  at  the  simplicity  of 
the  gulled  editor,  swallowing  the  dregs  of  Loyola 
for  the  very  quintessence  of  sublimated  reason  in 
England  at  the  commencement  of  the  nineteenth 
centuiy.  We  will  just,  as  a  contrast,  show  what 
we  Protestants  (who  are  a  party  concerned)  thought 
upon  the  same  subject  at  a  period  rather  nearer  to 
the  heroic  project  in  question. 

The  Gunpowder  Treason  was  the  subject  which 
called  forth  the  earliest  specimen  which  is  left  us  of 
the  pulpit  eloquence  of  Jeremy  Taylor.  When  he 
preached  the  sermon  on  that  anniversary,  which  is 
printed  at  the  end  of  the  folio  edition  of  his  Ser- 
mons, he  was  a  young  man,  just  commencing  his 
ministry  under  the  auspices  of  Archbishop  Laud. 
From  the  learning  and  maturest  oratory  which  it 
manifests,  one  should  rather  have  conjectured  it  to 
have  proceeded  from  the  same  person  after  he  was 
ripened  by  time  into  a  Bishop  and  Father  of  the 
Church.  "And,  really,  these  Romano-barbari co\\\i. 
'lever  pretend  to  any  precedent  for  an  act  so  bar- 


3^6  EL  I  ANA. 

barous  as  theirs.  Adramelech,  indeed,  killed  a 
king ;  but  he  spared  the  people.  Haman  would 
have  killed  the  people,  but  spared  the  king ;  but 
that  both  king  and  people,  princes  and  judges, 
branch  and  rush  and  root,  should  die  at  once  (as  if 
Caligula's  wish  were  actuated,  and  all  England 
upon  one  head),  was  never  known  till  now,  that 
all  the  malice  of  the  world  met  in  this  as  in  a  centre. 
The  Sicilian  even-song,  the  matins  of  St.  Bartho- 
lomevi^,  known  for  the  pitiless  and  damned  mas- 
sacres, were  but  kcittvov  aKtag  ovap,  the  dream 
of  the  shadow  of  smoke,  if  compared  with  this 
great  fire.  In  tarn  ocatpato  sactdo  fabulas  vulgares 
nequitia  72on  invetiit.  This  was  a  busy  age.  Hero- 
stratus  must  have  invented  a  more  sublimed  malice 
than  the  burning  of  one  temple,  or  not  have  been 
so  much  as  spoke  of  since  the  discovery  of  the 
powder  treason.  But  I  must  make  more  haste  ;  I 
shall  not  else  climb  the  sublimity  of  this  impiety. 
Nero  was  sometimes  the  poptdare  odium,  was  popu- 
larly hated,  and  deserved  it  too  :  for  he  slew  his 
master,  and  his  wife,  and  all  his  family,  once  or 
twice  over  ;  opened  his  mother's  womb  ;  fired  the 
city,  laughed  at  it,  slandered  the  Christians  for  it : 
but  yet  all  these  were  but  principia  malorttm,  the 
very  first  rudiments  of  evil.  Add,  then,  to  these, 
Herod's  masterpiece  at  Ramah,  as  it  was  deciphered 
by  the  tears  and  sad  threnes  of  the  matrons  in  a 
universal  mourning  for  the  loss  of  their  pretty  in- 
fants ;  yet  this  of  Herod  will  prove  but  an  infant 
wickedness,  and  that  of  Nero  the  evil  but  of  one 
city.  I  would  willingly  have  found  out  an  example, 
but  see  I  cannot.  Should  I  put  into  the  scale  the  ex- 
tract of  the  old  tyrants  famous  in  antique  stories  : — 

Bistonii  stabulum  regis,  Busiridis  aras, 
Antiphatse  mensas,  et  Taurica  regna  Thoantis; — 


GUV  FAUX.  247 

should  I  take  for  true  story  the  highest  cruelty  as  it 
was  fancied  by  the  most  hieroglyphical  Egyptian, — 
this  alone  would  weigh  them  down,  as  if  the  Alps 
were  put  in  scale  against  the  dust  of  a  balance. 
For,  had  this  accursed  treason  prospered,  we  should 
have  had  the  whole  kingdom  mourn  for  the  ines- 
timable loss  of  its  chiefest  glory,  its  life,  its  present 
joy,  and  all  its  very  hopes  for  the  future.  For  such 
was  their  destined  malice,  that  they  would  not  only 
have  inflicted  so  cruel  a  blow,  but  have  made  it  in- 
curable, by  cutting  off  our  supplies  of  joy,  the  whole 
succession  of  the  Line  Royal.  Not  only  the  vine 
itself,  but  all  the  gemmidcE,  and  the  tender  olive 
branches,  should  either  have  been  bent  to  their 
intentions,  and  made  to  grow  crooked,  or  else  been 
broken. 

"And  now,  after  such  a  sublimity  of  malice,  I 
will  not  instance  in  the  sacrilegious  ruin  of  the 
neighbouring  temples,  which  needs  must  have 
perished  in  the  flame ;  nor  in  the  disturbing  the 
ashes  of  our  entombed  kings,  devouring  their  dead 
ruins  like  sepulchral  dogs  :  these  are  but  minutes 
in  respect  of  the  ruin  prepared  for  the  living  tem- 
ples : — 

Stragem  sed  istam  non  tulit 

Christus  cadeiitum  Principum 

Impune,  ne  forsan  sui 

Patris  periret  fabrica. 
Ergo  quae  poterit  lingua  retexere 
i.audes,  Christe,  tuas,  qui  domitum  struis 
Infidum  populura  cum  Duce  perfido  !" 

In  such  strains  of  eloquent  indignation  did  Jeremy 
Taylor's  young  oratory  inveigh  against  that  stupen- 
dous attempt  which  he  truly  says  had  no  parallel  in 
ancient  or  modem  times.  A  century  and  a  half  of 
European  crimes  has  elapsed  since  he  made  the 


448  ELI  ANA. 

assertion,  and  his  position  remains  in  its  strength. 
He  wrote  near  the  time  in  wliich  the  nefarious 
project  had  like  to  have  been  completed.  Men's 
minds  still  were  shuddering  from  the  recentness  of 
the  escape.  It  must  have  been  within  his  memory, 
or  have  been  sounded  in  his  ears  so  young  by  his 
parents,  that  he  would  seem,  in  his  maturer  years, 
to  have  remembered  it.  No  wonder,  then,  tliat  he 
describes  it  in  words  that  burn.  But  to  us,  to  whom 
the  tradition  has  come  slowly  down,  and  has  had 
time  to  cool,  the  story  of  Guido  Vaux  sounds  rather 
like  a  tale,  a  fable,  and  an  invention,  than  true 
history.  It  supposes  such  gigantic  audacity  of 
daring,  combined  with  such  more  than  infantile 
stupidity  in  the  motive, — such  a  combination  of  the 
fiend  and  the  monkey, — that  credulity  is  almost 
swallowed  up  in  contemplating  the  singularity  of 
the  attempt.  It  has  accordingly,  in  some  degree, 
shared  the  fate  of  fiction.  It  is  familiarized  to  us  in 
a  kind  of  serio-ludicrous  way,  like  the  story  of  Guy 
of  Warwick,  or  Valentine  and  Orson.  The  way 
which  we  take  to  peipetua'te  the  memory  of  this 
deliverance  is  well  adapted  to  keep  up  this  fabular 
notion.  Boys  go  about  the  streets  annually  with  a 
beggarly  scarecrow  dressed  up,  which  is  to  be 
burnt  indeed,  at  night,  with  holy  zeal ;  but,  mean- 
time, they  beg  a  penny  for  poor  Guy :  this  perio- 
dical petition,  which  we  have  heard  from  our  in- 
fancy, combined  with  the  dress  and  appearance  of 
the  effigy,  so  well  calculated  to  move  compassion, 
has  the  effect  of  quite  removing  from  our  fancy 
the  horrid  circumstances  of  the  story  which  is  thus 
commemorated  ;  and  in  poor  Guy  vainly  should  we 
try  to  recognize  any  of  the  features  of  that  tremen- 
dous madman  in  iniquity,  Guido  Vaux,  with  his 
horrid  crew  of  accomplices,  that  sought  to  emulate 


GUV  FAUX.  tig 

earthquakes  and  bursting  volcanoes  in  their  more 
than  mortal  mischief. 

Indeed,  the  whole  ceremony  of  burning  Guy 
Faux,  or  tke  Pope,  as  he  is  indifferently  called,  is  a 
sort  of  Treason  Travestie,  and  admiral^ly  adapted 
to  lower  our  feelings  upon  this  memorable  subject. 
The  printers  of  the  little  duodecimo  Prayer  Book, 
printed  by  T.  Baskett,'  in  1749,  which  has  the 
effigy  of  his  sacred  majesty  George  II.  piously  pre- 
fixed, have  illustrated  the  service  (a  very  fine  one 
in  itself),  which  is  appointed  for  the  anniversary  of 
this  day,  with  a  print,  which  it  is  not  very  easy  to 
describe ;  but  the  contents  appear  to  be  these  : 
The  scene  is  a  room,  I  conjecture,  in  the  king's 
palace.  Two  persons — one  of  whom  I  take  to  be 
James  himself,  from  his  wearing  his  hat,  while  the 
other  stands  bare-headed — are  intently  surveying  a 
sort  of  speculum,  or  magic  mirror,  which  stands 
upon  a  pedestal  in  the  midst  of  the  room,  in  which 
a  little  figure  of  Guy  Faux  with  his  dark  lantern, 
approaching  the  door  of  the  Parliament  House,  is 
made  discernible  by  the  light  proceeding  from  a 
great  eye  which  shines  in  from  the  topmost  corner 
of  the  apartment ;  by  which  eye  the  pious  artist 
no  doubt  meant  to  designate  Providence.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  mirror  is  a  figure  doing  something, 
which  puzzled  me  when  a  child,  and  continues  to 
puzzle  me  now.  The  best  I  can  make  of  it  is,  that 
it  is  a  conspirator  busy  laying  the  train ;  but,  then, 
why  is   he  represented   in  the   king's  chamber? 

1  The  same,  I  presume,  upon  whom  the  clergyman  in  the 
song  of  the  "Vicar  and  Moses,"  not  without  judgment, 
{.asses  this  memorable  censure : 

"  Here,  Moses  the  king  : 
'Tis  a  scandalous  thing 
That  this  Baskett  should  print  for  the  Crowu." 


aso  ELI  ANA. 

Conjecture  upon  so  fantastical  a  design  is  vain  ; 
and  I  only  notice  the  print  as  being  one  of  the 
earliest  graphic  representations  which  woke  my 
childhood  into  wonder,  and  doubtless  combined, 
with  the  mummery  before  mentioned,  to  take  off 
the  edge  of  that  horror  which  the  naked  historical 
mention  of  Guide's  conspiracy  could  not  have 
failed  of  exciting. 

Now  that  so  many  years  are  past  since  that 
abominable  machination  was  happily  frustrated,  it 
will  not,  I  hope,  be  considered  a  profane  sporting 
with  the  subject,  if  we  take  no  very  serious  survey 
of  the  consequences  that  would  have  flowed  from 
this  plot  if  it  had  had  a  successful  issue.  The  first 
thing  that  strikes  us,  in  a  selfish  point  of  view,  is 
tlie  material  change  which  it  must  have  produced  in 
the  course  of  the  nobility.  All  the  ancient  peerage 
being  extinguished,  as  it  was  intended,  at  one  blow, 
the  AW  Book  must  have  been  closed  for  ever,  or  a 
new  race  of  peers  must  have  been  created  to  supply 
the  deficiency.  As  the  first  part  of  this  dilemma  is 
a  deal  too  shocking  to  think  of,  what  a  fund  of 
mouth-watering  reflections  does  this  give  rise  to  in 
the  breast  of  us  plebeians  of  A.D.  1823  !   Why,  you 

or  I,  reader,  might  have  been  Duke  of ,  or 

Earl  of .    I  particularize  no  titles,  to  avoid  the 

least  suspicion  of  intention  to  usurp  the  dignities  of 
the  two  noblemen  whom  I  have  in  my  eye ;  but  a 
feeling  more  dignified  than  envy  sometimes  excites 
a  sigh,  when  I  think  how  the  posterity  of  Guido's 
Legend  of  Honour  (among  whom  you  or  I  might 
have  been)  might  have  rolled  down  "  dulcified,"  as 
Burke  expresses  it,  "by  an  exposure  to  the  influ- 
ence of  heaven  in  a  long  flow  of  generations,  from 
the  hard,  acidulous,  metallic  tincture  of  the  spring."' 
'  Letter  to  a  Noble  Lord. 


Giry  FAUX.  2SI 

What  new  orders  of  merit,  think  you,  this  English 
Napoleon  would  have  chosen?  Knights  of  the 
Barrel,  or  Lords  of  the  Tub,  Grand  Almoners  of 
the  Cellar,  or  Ministers  of  Explosion  ?  We  should 
have  given  the  train  couchant,  and  the  fire  rampant, 
in  our  arms  ;  we  should  have  quartered  the  dozen 
white  matches  in  our  coats  :  the  Shallows  would 
have  been  nothing  to  us. 

Turning  away  from  these  mortifying  reflections, 
let  us  contemplate  its  effects  upon  the  other  house ; 
for  they  were  all  to  have  gone  together, — king, 
lords,  commons. 

To  assist  our  imagination,  let  us  take  leave  tc 
suppose  (and  we  do  it  in  the  harmless  wantonness 
of  fancy)— to  suppose  that  the  tremendous  ex- 
plosion had  taken  place  in  our  days.  We  better 
know  what  a  House  of  Commons  is  in  our  days, 
and  can  better  estimate  our  loss.  Let  us  imagine, 
then,  to  ourselves,  the  united  members  sitting  in 
full  conclave  above  :  Faux  just  ready  with  his 
train  and  matches  below, — in  his  hand  a  "reed 
tipt  with  fire."     He  applies  the  fatal  engine. 

To  assist  our  notions  still  further,  let  us  suppose 
some  lucky  dog  of  a  reporter,  who  had  escaped  by 
miracle  upon  some  plank  of  St.  Stephen's  benches, 
and  came  plump  upon  the  roof  of  the  adjacent 
Abbey  ;  from  whence  descending,  at  some  neigh- 
bouring coffee-house,  first  wiping  his  clothes  and 
calling  for  a  glass  of  lemonade,  he  sits  down  and 
reports  what  he  had  heard  and  seen  {qtwrtim  pars 
magna  fiat),  for  the  Morning  Post  or  the  Courier. 
We  can  scarcely  imagine  him  describing  the  event 
in  any  other  words  but  some  such  as  these  : — 

"  A  fnotion  was  put  and  carried,  that  this  House 
do  adjourn ;  that  the  speaker  do  qt{it  the  chair. 
The  House  rose  amid  clamours  for  order. " 


353  ELIANA. 

In  some  such  way  the  event  might  most  tech- 
nically have  been  conveyed  to  the  public.  But  a 
poetical  mind,  not  content  with  this  dry  method  of 
narration,  cannot  help  pursuing  the  effects  of  this 
tremendous  blowing  up,  this  adjournment  in  the 
air,  sine  die.  It  seems  the  benches  mount, — the 
chair  first,  and  then  the  benches ;  and  first  the 
treasury  bench,  hurried  up  in  this  nitrous  explosion, 
— the  members,  as  it  were,  pairing  off ;  Whigs  and 
Tories  taking  their  friendly  apotheosis  together  (as 
they  did  their  sandwiches  below  in  Bellamy's  room). 
Fancy,  in  her  flight,  keeps  pace  with  the  aspiring 
legislators  :  she  sees  the  awful  seat  of  order  mount- 
ing, till  it  becomes  finally  fixed,  a  constellation, 
next  to  Cassiopeia's  chair, — the  wig  of  him  that 
sat  in  it  taking  its  place  near  Berenice's  curls.  St. 
Peter,  at  heaven's  wicket, — no,  not  St.  Peter, — 
St.  Stephen,  with  open  arms,  receives  his  own. 

While  Fancy  beholds  these  celestial  appropria- 
tions. Reason,  no  less  pleased,  discerns  the  mighty 
benefit  which  so  complete  a  renovation  must  pro- 
duce below.  Let  the  most  determined  foe  to  cor- 
ruption, the  most  thorough-paced  redresser  of 
abuses,  try  to  conceive  a  more  absolute  purification 
of  the  house  than  this  was  calculated  to  produce. 
Why,  pride's  purge  was  nothing  to  it.  The  whole 
borough-mongering  system  would  have  been  got 
rid  of,  fairly  exploded ;  with  it  the  senseless  dis- 
tinctions of  party  must  have  disappeared,  faction 
must  have  vanished,  corruption  have  expired  in  air. 
From  Hundred,  Tything,  and  Wapentake,  some 
new  Alfred  would  have  convened,  in  all  its  purity, 
the  primitive  Witenagemote, — fixed  upon  a  basis 
of  property  or  population  permanent  as  the  poles. 

From  this  dream  of  universal  restitution,  Reason 
and  Fancy  with  difficulty  awake  to  view  the  real 


GUY  FAUX.  «S3 

state  of  things.  But,  blessed  be  Heaven !  St. 
Stephen's  walls  are  yet  standing,  all  her  seats 
firmly  secured  ;  nay,  some  have  doubted  (since  the 
Septennial  Act)  whether  gunpowder  itself,  or  any- 
thing short  of  a  committee  above  stairs,  would  be 
able  to  shake  any  one  member  from  his  seat.  That 
great  and  final  improvement  to  the  Abbey,  which 
is  all  that  seems  wanting, — the  removing  West- 
minster Hall  and  its  appendages,  and  letting  in  the 
view  of  the  Thames,  — must  not  be  expected  in  our 
days.  Dismissing,  therefore,  all  such  speculations 
as  mere  tales  of  a  tub,  it  is  the  duty  of  every  honest 
Englishman  to  endeavour,  by  means  less  wholesale 
than  Guide's,  to  ameliorate,  without  extinguishing, 
parliaments  ;  to  hold  the  lantern  to  the  dark  places 
of  corruption;  to  apply  the  match  to  the  rotten 
parts  of  the  system  only  ;  and  to  wrap  himself  up, 
not  in  the  muffling  mantle  of  conspiracy,  but  in 
the  warm,  honest  cloak  of  integrity  and  patriotic 
intention. 


A  VISION  OF  HORNS. 


Y  thoughts  had  been  engaged  last  even- 
ing in  solving  the  problem,  why  in  all 
times  and  places  the  horn  has  been 
Si  agreed  upon  as  the  symbol,  or  honour- 
able badge,  of  married  men.  Moses'  horn,  the 
horn  of  Ammon,  of  Amalthea,  and  a  cornucopia 
of  legends  besides,  came  to  my  recollection,  but 
afforded  no  satisfactory  solution,  or  rather  involved 
the  question  in  deeper  obscurity.  Tired  with  the 
fruitless  chase  of  inexplicant  analogies,  I  fell  asleep, 
and  dreamed  in  this  fashion  : — 

Methought  certain  scales  or  films  fell  from  my 
eyes,  which  had  hitherto  hindered  these  little  tokens 
from  being  visible.  I  was  somewhere  in  the  Corn- 
hill  (as  it  might  be  termed)  of  some  Utopia.  Busy 
citizens  jostled  each  other,  as  they  may  do  in  our 
streets,  with  care  (the  care  of  making  a  penny) 
written  upon  their  foreheads  ;  and  sotncthing  else, 
which  is  rather  imagined  than  distinctly  imaged, 
upon  the  brows  of  my  own  friends  and  fellow- 
townsmen. 

In  my  first  surprise,  I  supposed  myself  gotten 
into  some  forest, — Arden,  to  be  sure,  or  Sherwood  ; 
but  the  dresses  and  deportment,  all  civic,  forbade 
me  to  continue  in  that  delusion.     Then  a  scrip- 


A    VISION  OF  HORNS.  255 

tural  thought  crossed  me  (especially  as  there  were 
nearly  as  many  Jews  as  Christians  among  them), 
whether  it  might  not  be  the  children  of  Israel  going 
up  to  besiege  Jericho.  I  was  undeceived  of  both 
errors  by  the  sight  of  many  faces  which  were  fami- 
liar to  me.  I  found  myself  strangely  (as  it  will 
happen  in  dreams)  at  one  and  the  same  time  in  an 
unknown  country  with  known  companions.  I  met 
old  friends,  not  with  new  faces,  but  with  their  old 
faces  oddly  adorned  in  front,  with  each  man  a  cer- 
tain corneous  excrescence.     Dick  Mitis,  the  little 

cheesemonger  in  St. 's  Passage,  was  the  first 

that  saluted  me,  with  his  hat  off  (you  know  Dick's 
way  to  a  customer) ;  and,  I  not  being  aware  of  him, 
he  thrust  a  strange  beam  into  my  left  eye,  which 
pained  and  grieved  me  exceedingly ;  but,  instead 
of  apology,  he  only  grinned  and  fleered  in  my  face, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "It  is  the  custom  of  the  coun- 
try, "  and  passed  on. 

I  had  scarce  time  to  send  a  civil  message  to  his 
lady,  whom  I  have  always  admired  as  a  pattern  of 
a  wife,  and  do  indeed  take  Dick  and  her  to  be  a 
model  of  conjugal  agreement  and  harmony,  when 
I  felt  an  ugly  smart  in  my  neck,  as  if  something 
had  gored  it  behind;  and,  turning  round,  it  was 
my  old  friend  and  neighbour,  Dulcet,  the  confec 
tioner,  who,  meaning  to  be  pleasant,  had  thrust 
his  protuberance  right  into  my  nape,  and  seemed 
proud  of  his  power  of  offending. 

Now  I  was  assailed  right  and  left,  till  in  my 
own  defence  I  was  obliged  to  walk  sideling  and 
wary,  and  look  about  me,  as  you  guard  your  eyes 
in  London  streets;  for  the  horns  thickened,  and 
came  at  me  like  the  ends  of  umbrellas  poking  in 
one's  face. 

I  soon  found  that  these  towns-folk  were  the  civil- 


2s6  EL  I  AN  A. 

est,  best-mannered  people  in  the  world ;  and  that, 
if  they  had  offended  at  all,  it  was  entirely  owing 
to  their  blindness.  They  do  not  know  what  dan- 
gerous weapons  they  protrude  in  front,  and  will 
stick  their  best  friends  in  the  eye  with  provoking 
complacency.  Yet  the  best  of  it  is,  they  can  see 
the  beams  on  their  neighbours'  foreheads,  if  they 
are  as  small  as  motes ;  but  their  own  beams  they 
can  in  no  wise  discern. 

There  was  little  Mitis,  that  I  told  you  I  just  en- 
countered. He  has  simply  (I  speak  of  him  at  home 
in  his  own  shop)  the  smoothest  forehead  in  his  own 
conceit.  He  will  stand  you  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
together,  contemplating  the  serenity  of  it  in  the 
glass  before  he  begins  to  shave  himself  in  a  morn- 
ing ;  yet  you  saw  what  a  desperate  gash  he  gave 
me. 

Desiring  to  be  better  informed  of  the  ways  of 
this  extraordinary  people,  I  applied  myself  to  a 
fellow  of  some  assurance,  who  (it  appeared)  acted 
as  a  sort  of  interpreter  to  strangers  :  he  was  dressed 
in  a  military  uniform,  and  strongly  resembled  CoL 

,  of  the  Guards.     And    "  Pray,   sir,"  said  I, 

"  have  all  the  inhabitants  of  your  city  these  trouble- 
some excrescences  ?  I  beg  pardon :  I  see  you  have 
none.  You  perhaps  are  single." — "  Truly,  sir,"  he 
replied  with  a  smile,  "for  the  most  part  we  have, 
but  not  all  alike.  There  are  some,  like  Dick,  that 
sport  but  one  tumescence.  Their  ladies  have  been 
tolerably  faithful, — have  confined  themselves  to  a 
single  aberration  or  so :  these  we  call  Unicorns. 
Dick,  you  must  know,  is  my  Unicorn.  [He  spoke 
this  with  air  of  invincible  assurance.]  Then  we 
have  Bicorns,  Tricorns,  and  so  on  up  to  Millecorns. 
[Here  methought  I  crossed  and  blessed  myself  in 
my  dream.]     Some  again  we  have, — there  goes 


A    VISION  OF  HORNS.  257 

one :  you  see  how  happy  the  rogue  looks, — how  he 
walks  smiling,  and  perking  up  his  face,  as  if  he 
thought  himself  the  only  man.  He  is  not  married 
yet ;  but  on  ^Monday  next  he  leads  to  the  altar 
the  accomplished  widow  Dacres,  relict  of  our  late 
sheriff" 

"I  see,  sir,"  said  I,  "and  observe  that  he  is 
happily  free  from  the  national  goitre  (let  me  call 
it)  which  distinguishes  most  of  your  countrymen." 

"Look  a  little  more  narrowly,"  said  my  con- 
ductor. 

I  put  on  my  spectacles ;  and,  observing  the  man 
a  little  more  diligently,  above  his  forehead  I  could 
mark  a  thousand  little  twinkling  shadows  dancing 
the  hornpipe ;  little  hornlets,  and  rudiments  of  horn, 
of  a  soft  and  pappy  consistence  (for  I  handled  some 
of  them),  but  which,  like  coral  out  of  water,  my 
guide  informed  me,  would  infallibly  stiffen  and  grow 
rigid  within  a  week  or  two  from  the  expiration  of 
his  bachelorhood. 

Then  I  saw  some  horns  strangely  growing  out 
behind ;  and  my  interpreter  explained  these  to  be 
married  men  whose  wives  had  conducted  them- 
selves with  infinite  propriety  since  the  period  of 
their  marriage,  but  were  thought  to  have  antedated 
their  good  men's  titles,  by  certain  liberties  they 
had  indulged  themselves  in  prior  to  the  ceremony. 
This  kind  of  gentry  wore  their  horns  backwards, 
as  has  been  said,  in  the  fashion  of  the  old  pig-tails  ; 
and,  as  there  was  nothing  obtrusive  or  ostentatious 
in  them,  nobody  took  any  notice  of  it. 

Some  had  pretty  little  budding  antlers,  like  the 
first  essays  of  a  young  fawn.  These,  he  told  me, 
had  wives  whose  affairs  were  in  a  hopeful  way,  but 
not  quite  brought  to  a  conclusion. 

Others  had  nothing  to  show:  only  by  certain 

II.  s 


258  ELIAN  A. 

red  angry  marks  and  swellings  in  their  foreheads, 
which  itched  the  more  they  kept  rubbing  and 
chafing  them,  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  something 
was  brewing. 

I  took  notice  that  every  one  jeered  at  the  rest, 
only  none  took  notice  of  the  sea-captains ;  yet 
these  were  as  well  provided  with  their  tokens  as 
the  best  among  tliem.  This  kind  of  people,  it 
seems,  taking  their  wives  upon  so  contingent 
tenures,  their  lot  was  considered  as  nothing  but 
natural :  so  they  wore  their  marks  without  im- 
peachment, as  they  might  cany  their  cockades  ; 
and  nobody  respected  them  a  whit  the  less  for  it. 

I  observed,  that  the  more  sprouts  grew  out  of  a 
man's  head,  the  less  weight  they  seemed  to  carry 
with  them  ;  whereas  a  single  token  would  now  and 
then  appear  to  give  the  wearer  some  uneasiness. 
This  shows  that  use  is  a  great  thing. 

Some  had  their  adornings  gilt,  which  needs  no 
explanation;  while  others,  like  musicians,  went 
sounding  theirs  before  them, — a  sort  of  music  which 
I  thought  might  very  well  have  been  spared. 

It  was  pleasant  to  see  some  of  the  citizens  en- 
counter between  themselves;  how  they  smiled  in 
their  sleeves  at  the  shock  they  received  from  their 
neighbour,  and  none  seemed  conscious  of  the  shock 
which  their  neighbour  experienced  in  return. 

Some  had  great  corneous  stumps,  seemingly  torn 
off  and  bleeding.  These,  the  interpreter  warned 
me,  were  husbands  who  had  retaliated  upon  their 
wives,  and  the  badge  was  in  equity  divided  be- 
tween them. 

While  I  stood  discerning  these  things,  a  slight 
tweak  on  my  cheek  unawares,  which  brought  tears 
into  my  eyes,  introduced  to  me  my  friend  Placid, 
between  whose   lady  and  a  certain  male  cousin 


A    VISION  OF  HORNS.  259 

some  idle  flirtations  I  remember  to  have  heard 
talked  of;  but  that  was  all.  He  saw  he  had  some- 
how hurt  me,  and  asked  ray  pardon  with  that 
round,  unconscious  face  of  his ;  and  looked  so 
tristful  and  contrite  for  his  no-offence,  that  I  was 
ashamed  for  the  man's  penitence.  Yet  I  protest  it 
was  but  a  scratch.  It  was  the  least  little  hornet  of 
a  horn  that  could  be  framed.  "Shame  on  the 
man,"  I  secretlyexclaimed,  "who  could  thrust  so 
much  as  the  value  of  a  hair  into  a  brow  so  un- 
suspecting and  inoffensive!  What,  then,  must 
they  have  to  answer  for,  who  plant  great,  mon- 
strous, timber-like, projecting  antlers  upon  the  heads 
of  those  whom  they  call  their  friends,  when  a 
puncture  of  this  atomical  tenuity  made  my  eyes  to 
water  at  this  rate  !  All  the  pincers  at  Surgeons' 
Hall  cannot  pull  out  for  Placid  that  little  hair." 

I  was  curious  to  know  what  became  of  these 
frontal  excrescences  when  the  husbands  died  ;  and 
my  guide  infonned  me  that  the  chemists  in  their 
country  made  a  considerable  profit  by  them,  ex- 
tracting from  them  certain  subtile  essences  :  and 
then  I  remembered  that  nothing  was  so  efficacious 
in  my  own,  for  restoring  swooning  matrons,  and 
wives  troubled  with  the  vapours,  as  a  strong  sniff 
or  two  at  the  composition  appropriately  called 
hartshorn, — far  beyond  sal  volatile. 

Then  also  I  began  to  understand  why  a  man, 
who  is  the  jest  of  the  company,  is  said  to  be  the 
butt, — as  much  as  to  say,  such  a  one  butteth  with 
the  horn. 

I  inquired  if  by  no  operation  these  wens  were 
ever  extracted ;  and  was  told  that  there  was  in  - 
deed  an  order  of  dentists,  whom  they  call  canonists 
in  their  language,  who  undertook  to  restore  the 
forehead  to  its  pristine  smoothness ;  but  that  ordina- 


a6o  ELIANA. 

lily  it  was  not  done  without  much  cost  and  trouble; 
and,  when  they  succeeded  in  plucking  out  the  oftend- 
ing  part,  it  left  a  painful  void,  which  could  not  be 
filled  up ;  and  that  many  patients  who  had  sub- 
mitted to  the  excision  were  eager  to  marry  again, 
to  supply  with  a  good  second  antler  the  baldness 
and  deformed  gap  left  by  the  extraction  of  the 
former,  as  men  losing  their  natural  hair  substitute 
for  it  a  less  becoming  periwig. 

Some  horns  I  observed  beautifully  taper,  smooth, 
and  (as  it  were)  flowering.  These  I  understand 
were  the  portions  brought  by  handsome  women  to 
their  spouses ;  and  I  pitied  the  rough,  homely,  un- 
sightly deformities  on  the  brows  of  others,  who 
had  been  deceived  by  plain  and  ordinary  partners. 
Vet  the  Litter  I  observed  to  be  by  far  the  most 
common ;  the  solution  of  which  I  leave  to  the  na- 
tural philosopher. 

One  tribe  of  married  men  I  particularly  admired 
at,  who,  instead  of  horns,  wore  ingrafted  on  their 
forehead  a  sort  of  horn-book.  "  This,"  quoth  my 
guide,  "is  the  greatest  mysteiy  in  our  country, 
and  well  worth  an  explanation.  You  must  know 
that  all  infidelity  is  not  of  the  senses.  We  have 
as  well  intellectual  as  material  wittols.  These, 
whom  you  see  decorated  with  the  order  of  the  book, 
are  trill  ers,  who  encourage  about  their  wives'  pre- 
sence the  society  of  your  men  of  genius  (their  good 
friends,  as  they  call  them), — literary  disputants, 
who  ten  to  one  out-talk  the  poor  husband,  and 
commit  upon  the  understanding  of  the  woman  a 
violence  and  estrangement  in  the  end,  little  less 
painful  than  the  coarser  sort  of  alienation.  Whip 
me  these  knaves  —  [my  conductor  here  expressed 
himself  with  a  becoming  warmth],— whip  me  them, 
I  say,  who,  with  no  excuse  from  the  passions,  in 


A    VISION  OF  HORNS.  261 

cold  blood  seduce  the  minds,  rather  than  the  per- 
sons, of  their  friends'  wives ;  who,  for  the  tickling 
pleasure  of  hearing  themselves  prate,  dehonestate 
the  intellects  of  married  women,  dishonouring  the 
husband  in  what  should  be  his  most  sensible  part. 

If  I  must  be [here  he  used  a  plain  word]  let 

it  be  by  some  honest  sinner  like  myself,  and  not 
by  one  of  these  gad-flies,  these  debauchers  of  the 
understanding,  these  flattery-buzzers."  _  He  was 
going  on  in  this  manner,  and  I  was  getting  insen- 
sibly pleased  with  my  friend's  manner  (I  had  been 
a  little  shy  of  him  at  first),  when  the  dream  sud- 
denly left  me,  vanishing,  as  Virgil  speaks,  through 
the  gate  of  Horn. 


THE  GOOD  CLERK,  A  CHARACTER; 

WITH  SOME  ACCOUNT  OF   "THE  COMPLETE 
ENGLISH  TRADESMAN." 


iUE  GOOD  CLERK.— He  writeth  a 
fair  and  swift  hand,  and  is  competently 
versed  in  thie  four  first  rules  of  arith- 
metic, in  the  Rule  of  Three  (which  is 
sometimes  called  the  Golden  Rule),  and  in  Prac- 
tice. We  mention  these  things  that  we  may  leave 
no  room  for  cavillers  to  say  that  anything  essential 
hath  been  omitted  in  our  definition ;  else,  to  speak 
the  truth,  these  are  but  ordinary  accomplishments, 
and  such  as  every  understrapper  at  a  desk  is  com- 
monly furnished  with.  The  character  we  treat  of 
soareth  higher. 

He  is  clean  and  neat  in  his  person,  not  from  a 
vain-glorious  desire  of  setting  himself  forth  to  ad- 
vantage in  the  eyes  of  the  other  sex,  with  which 
vanity  too  many  of  our  young  sparks  now-a-days 
are  infected ;  but  to  do  credit,  as  we  say,  to  the 
office.  For  this  reason,  he  evermore  taketh  care 
that  his  desk  or  his  books  receive  no  soil;  the 
which  things  he  is  commonly  as  solicitous  to 
have  fair  and  unblemished,  as  the  owner  of  a  fine 
horse  is  to  have  him  appear  in  good  keep. 


THE  GOOD  CLERK.  263 

He  riseth  early  in  the  morning;  not  because 
early  rising  conduceth  to  health  (though  he  doth 
not  altogether  despise  that  consideration),  but 
chiefly  to  the  intent  that  he  may  be  first  at  the 
desk.  There  is  his  post,— there  he  delighteth  to 
be,  unless  when  his  meals  or  necessity  calleth  hinr 
away;  which  time  he  alway  esteemeth  as  lost, 
and  maketh  as  short  as  possible. 

He  is  temperate  in  eating  and  drinking,  that  he 
may  preserve  a  clear  head  and  steady  hand  for  his 
master's  service.  He  is  also  partly  induced  to  this 
observation  of  the  rules  of  temperance  by  his 
respect  for  religion  and  the  laws  of  his  country ; 
which  things,  it  may  once  for  all  be  noted,  do  add 
special  assistances  to  his  actions,  but  do  not  and 
cannot  furnish  the  main  spring  or  motive  thereto. 
His  first  ambition,  as  appeareth  all  along,  is  to  be 
a  good  clerk ;  his  next,  a  good  Christian,  a  good 
patriot,  &c. 

Correspondent  to  this,  he  keepeth  himself  honest, 
not  for  fear  of  the  laws,  but  because  he  hath  ob- 
served how  unseemly  an  article  it  maketh  in  the 
day-book  or  ledger  when  a  sum  is  set  down  lost  or 
missing ;  it  being  his  pride  to  make  these  books  to 
agree  and  to  tally,  the  one  side  with  the  other, 
with  a  sort  of  architectural  symmetry  and  corre- 
spondence. 

He  marrieth,  or  marrieth  not,  as  best  suiteth 
with  his  employer's  views.  Some  merchants  do 
the  rather  desire  to  have  married  men  in  their 
counting-houses,  because  they  think  the  married 
state  a  pledge  for  their  servants'  integrity,  and  an 
incitement  to  them  to  be  industrious ;  and  it  was 
an  observation  of  a  late  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
that  the  sons  of  clerks  do  generally  prove  clerks 
themselves,  and  that  merchants  encouraging  per- 


264  ELI  ANA. 

sons  in  their  employ  to  marry,  and  to  have  families, 
was  the  best  method  of  securing  a  breed  of  sober, 
industrious  young  men  attached  to  the  mercantile 
interest.  Be  this  as  it  may,  such  a  character  as  we 
have  been  describing  will  wait  till  the  pleasure  of 
his  employer  is  known  on  this  point;  and  regu- 
lateth  his  desires  by  the  custom  of  the  house  or 
firm  to  which  he  belongeth. 

He  avoideth  profane  oaths  and  jesting,  as  so 
much  time  lost  from  his  employ.  What  spare  time 
he  hath  for  conversation,  which,  in  a  counting- 
house  such  as  we  have  been  supposing,  can  be  but 
small,  he  spendeth  in  putting  seasonable  questions 
to  such  of  his  fellows  (and  sometimes  respec/fully 
to  the  master  himself)  who  can  give  him  informa- 
tion respecting  the  price  and  quality  of  goods,  the 
state  of  exchange,  or  the  latest  improvements  in 
book-keeping  ;  thus  making  the  motion  of  his  lips, 
as  well  as  of  his  fingers,  subservient  to  his  master's 
interest.  Not  that  he  refuseth  a  brisk  saying,  or  a 
cheerful  sally  of  wit,  when  it  comes  unforced,  is 
free  of  offence,  and  hath  a  convenient  brevity. 
For  this  reason,  he  hath  commonly  some  such 
phrase  as  this  in  his  mouth : — 

It's  a  slovenly  look 
To  blot  your  book. 

Or, 

Red  ink  for  ornament,  black  for  use  : 
The  best  of  things  are  open  to  abuse. 

So  upon  the  eve  of  any  great  holy-day,  of  which 
he  keepeth  one  or  two  at  least  every  year,  he  will 
merrily  say,  in  the  hearing  of  a  confidential  friend, 
but  to  none  other, — 

All  work  and  no  play 
Makes  Jack  a  dull  boy 


THE  GOOD  CLERK.  265 

Or, 

A  bow  always  bent  must  crack  at  last. 

But  then  this  must  always  be  understood  to  be 
spoken  confidentially,  and,  as  we  say,  under  the 
rose. 

Lastly,  his  dress  is  plain,  without  singularity; 
with  no  other  ornament  than  the  quill,  which  is 
the  badge  of  his  function,  stuck  behind  the  dexter 
ear,  and  this  rather  for  convenience  of  having  it  at 
hand,  when  he  hath  been  called  away  from  his 
desk,  and  expecteth  to  resume  his  seat  there  again 
shortly,  than  from  any  delight  which  he  taketh  in 
foppery  or  ostentation.  The  colour  of  his  clothes 
is  generally  noted  to  be  black  rather  than  brown, 
brown  rather  than  blue  or  green.  His  whole  de- 
portment is  staid,  modest,  and  civil.  His  motto 
is   "  Regularity." 

This  character  was  sketched  in  an  interval  of 
business,  to  divert  some  of  the  melancholy  hours 
of  a  counting-house.  It  is  so  little  a  creature  of 
fancy,  that  it  is  scarce  anything  more  than  a  recol- 
lection of  some  of  those  frugal  and  economical 
maxims,  which,  about  the  beginning  of  the  last 
century  (England's  meanest  period),  were  endea- 
voured to  be  inculcated  and  instilled  into  the 
breasts  of  the  London  Apprentices'  by  a  class  of 
instructors  who  might  not  inaptly  be  termed  "  The 
Masters  of  Mean  Morals."  The  astonishing  nar- 
rowness and  illiberality  of  the  lessons  contained  in 
some  of  those  books  is  inconceivable  by  those 
whose  studies  have  not  led  them  that  way,  and 

'  This  term  designated  a  larger  class  of  young  men  than 
that  to  which  it  is  now  confined.  It  took  in  the  articled 
clerks  of  merchants  and  bankers,  the  George  Barnwells  of 
the  day 


266  ELIANA. 

would  almost  induce  one  to  subscribe  to  the  hard 
censure  which  Drayton  has  passed  upon  the  mer- 
cantile spirit  : — 

The  gripple  merchant,  born  to  be  the  curse 
Of  this  brave  isle. 

I  have  now  lying  before  me  that  curious  book  by 
Daniel  Defoe,  "The  Complete  English  Trades- 
man." The  pompous  detail,  the  studied  analysis 
of  every  little  mean  art,  every  sneaking  address, 
every  trick  and  subterfuge,  short  of  larceny,  that  is 
necessary  to  the  tradesman's  occupation,  with  the 
hundreds  of  anecdotes,  dialogues  (in  Defoe's  live- 
liest manner)  interspersed,  all  tending  to  the  same 
amiable  purpose, — namely,  the  sacrificing  of  every 
honest  emotion  of  the  soul  to  what  he  calls  the 
main  chance, — if  you  read  it  in  an  ironical  sense, 
and  as  a  piece  of  covered  satire,  make  it  one  of  the 
most  amusing  books  which  Defoe  ever  writ,  as 
much  so  as  any  of  his  best  novels.  It  is  difficult 
to  say  what  his  intention  was  in  writing  it.  It  is 
almost  impossible  to  suppose  him  in  earnest.  Yet 
such  is  the  bent  of  the  book  to  narrow  and  to  de- 
grade the  heart,  that  if  such  maxims  were  as  catch- 
ing and  infectious  as  those  of  a  licentious  cast, 
which  happily  is  not  the  case,  had  I  been  living  at 
tliat  time,  I  certainly  should  have  recommended 
to  the  Grand  Jury  of  Middlesex,  who  presented 
"  The  Fable  of  the  Bees,"  to  have  presented  this 
book  of  Defoe's  in  preference,  as  of  a  far  more  vile 
and  debasing  tendency.  I  will  give  one  specimen 
of  his  advice  to  the  young  tradesman  on  i^ae.  govern- 
ment of  his  temper:  "The  retail  tradesman  in 
especial,  and  even  every  tradesman  in  his  station, 
must  furnish  himself  with  a  competent  stock  of 
patience.     I  mean  that  sort  of  patience  which  is 


THE  GOOD  CLERK.  267 

needful  to  bear  with  all  sorts  of  impertinence,  and 
the  most  provoking  curiosity  that  it  is  possible  to 
imagine  the  buyers,  even  the  worst  of  them,  are,  or 
can  be,  guilty  of.  A  tradestnan  behind  his  counter 
must  have  no  flesh  and  blood  about  him,  no  passions, 
no  resentment ;  he  must  never  be  angry, — no,  not 
so  much  as  seem  to  be  so,  if  a  customer  tumbles 
him  five  hundred  pounds'  worth  of  goods,  and 
scarce  bids  money  for  anything ;  nay,  though 
they  really  come  to  his  shop  with  no  intent  to  buy, 
as  many  do,  only  to  see  what  is  to  be  sold,  and 
though  he  knows  they  cannot  be  better  pleased 
than  they  are  at  some  other  shop  where  they  intend 
to  buy,  'tis  all  one ;  the  tradesman  must  take  it ; 
he  must  place  it  to  the  account  of  his  calling,  .that 
^tis  his  business  to  be  ill  used,  and  resent  nothing; 
and  so  must  answer  as  obligingly  to  those  that  give 
him  an  hour  or  two's  trouble,  and  buy  nothing,  as 
he  does  to  those  who,  in  half  the  time,  lay  out  ten 
or  twenty  pounds.  The  case  is  plain;  and  if  some 
do  give  him  trouble,  and  do  not  buy,  others  make 
amends,  and  do  buy ;  and  as  for  the  trouble,  'tis 
the  business  of  the  shop." 

Here  follows  a  most  admirable  story  of  a  mercer, 
who  by  his  indefatigable  meanness,  and  more  than 
Socratic  patience  under  affronts,  overcame  and  re- 
conciled a  lady,  who,  upon  the  report  of  another 
lady  that  he  had  behaved  saucily  to  some  third 
lady,  had  determined  to  shun  his  shop,  but,  by  the 
over-persuasions  of  a  fourth  lady,  was  induced  to 
go  to  it ;  which  she  does,  declaring  beforehand 
that  she  will  buy  nothing,  but  give  him  all  the 
trouble  she  can.  Her  attack  and  his  defence,  her 
insolence  and  his  persevering  patience,  are  de- 
scribed in  colours  worthy  of  a  Mandeville  ;  but  it 
is  too  long  to  recite.     "Th^  short  inference  from 


a68  ELIANA. 

this  long  discourse,"  says  he,  "is  this, — that  here 
you  see,  and  I  could  give  you  many  examples  like 
this,  how  and  in  what  manner  a  shopkeeper  is  to 
behave  himself  in  the  way  of  his  business  ;  what 
impertinences,  what  taunts,  flouts,  and  ridiculous 
things,  he  must  bear  in  his  trade  ;  and  must  not 
shov/  the  least  return,  or  the  least  signal  of  disgust : 
he  must  have  no  passions,  no  fire  in  his  temper ; 
he  must  be  all  soft  and  smooth;  nay,  if  his  real 
temper  be  naturally  fiery  and  hot,  he  must  show 
none  of  it  in  his  shop ;  he  must  be  a  perfect  com- 
plete hypocrite,  if  he  will  be  a  complete  tradesman} 
It  is  true,  natural  tempers  are  not  to  be  always 
counterfeited  :  the  man  cannot  easily  be  a  lamb  in 
his  shop,  and  a  lion  in  himself;  but,  let  it  be  easy 
or  hard,  it  must  be  done,  and  is  done.  There  are 
men  who  have  by  custom  and  usage  brought  them- 
selves to  it,  that  nothing  could  be  meeker  and 
milder  than  they  when  behind  the  counter,  and  yet 
nothing  be  more  furious  and  raging  in  every  other 
part  of  life :  nay,  the  provocations  they  have  met 
with  in  their  shops  have  so  irritated  their  rage, 
that  they  would  go  upstairs  from  their  shop,  and 
fall  into  frenzies,  and  a  kind  of  madness,  and  beat 
their  heads  against  the  wall,  and  perhaps  mischief 
themselves,  if  not  prevented,  till  the  violence  of  it 
had  gotten  vent,  and  the  passions  abate  and  cool. 
I  heard  once  of  a  shopkeeper  that  behaved  himself 
thus  to  such  an  extreme,  that,  when  he  was  pro- 
voked by  the  impertinence  of  the  customers  beyond 
what  his  temper  could  bear,  he  would  go  upstairs 
and  beat  his  wife,  kick  his  children  about  like 
dogs,  and  be  as  furious  for  two  or  three  minutes 
as  a  man  chained  down  in   Bedlam;  and  again, 

I  As  no  qualification  accompanies  this  maxim,  it  must  be 
understood  as  the  genuine  sentiment  of  the  author  ! 


THE  GOOD   CLERK.  269 

when  that  heat  was  over,  would  sit  down,  and  cry 
faster  than  the  children  he  had  abused  ;  and,  after 
the  fit,  he  would  go  down  into  the  shop  again,  and 
be  as  humble,  courteous,  and  as  calm,  as  any  man 
whatever  ;  so  absolute  a  government  of  his  pas- 
sions had  he  in  the  shop,  and  so  little  out  of  it : 
in  the  shop  a  soulless  animal  that  would  resent 
nothing ;  and  in  the  family,  a  madman  :  in  the  shop, 
meek  like  a  lamb  ;  but  in  the  family,  outrageous, 
like  a  Lybian  lion.  The  sum  of  the  matter  is,  it 
is  necessary  for  a  tradesman  to  subject  himself,  by 
all  the  ways  possible,  to  his  business ;  his  cicstomers 
are  to  be  his  idols :  so  far  as  he  may  worship  idols 
by  alloiuance,  he  is  to  bow  down  to  them,  and  wor- 
ship them;  at  least,  he  is  not  in  any  way  to  displease 
them,  or  show  any  disgust  or  distaste,  whatsoever 
they  may  say  or  do.  I'he  bottom  of  all  is,  that  he 
is  intending  to  get  money  by  them ;  and  it  is  not  for 
him  that  gets  money  to  offer  the  least  inconveni- 
ence to  them  by  whom  he  gets  it  :  he  is  to  consider, 
that,  as  Solomon  says,  "  the  borrower  is  servant 
to  the  lender  ;"  so  the  seller  is  servant  to  the  buyer. 
What  he  says  on  the  head  of  "  Pleasures  and  Re- 
creations" is  not  less  amusing:  "  The  tradesman's 
pleasure  should  be  in  his  business ;  his  companions 
should  be  his  books  (he  means  his  ledger,  waste- 
book,  &c.);  and,  if  he  has  a  family,  he  makes  his 
excursions  -upstairs,  and  no  further.  None  of  my 
cautions  aim  at  restraining  a  tradesman  from  di- 
verting himself,  as  we  call  it,  with  his  fireside,  or 
keeping  company  with  his  wife  and  children." 
Liberal  allowance !  nay,  almost  licentious  and  cri- 
minal indulgence !  But  it  is  time  to  dismiss  this 
Philosopher  of  Meanness.  More  of  this  stuff  would 
illiberalize  the  pages  of  the  "  Reflector."  Was  the 
man  in  earnest,  when  he  could  bring  such  powers 


270  ELIANA. 

of  description,  and  all  the  charms  of  natural  elo- 
quence, in  commendation  of  the  meanest,  vilest, 
wretchedest  degradations  of  the  human  character  ? 
or  did  he  not  rather  laugh  in  his  sleeve  at  the  doc- 
trines which  he  inculcated ;  and,  retorting  upon  the 
grave  citizens  of  London  their  own  arts,  palm  upon 
them  a  sample  of  disguised  satire  under  the  name 
of  wholesome  instruction  ? 


REMINISCENCE  OF  SIR  JEFFERY 
DUNSTAN. 

^^.O  your  account  of  Sir  Jeffery  Dunstan, 
J^A^  IS^  in  columns  829-30  (where,  by  an  unfor- 
tunate erratum,  the  effigies  of  tivo  Sir 
S  yefferys  appear,  when  the  uppermost 
figure  is  clearly  meant  for  Sir  Harry  Dimsdale), 
you  may  add  that  the  writer  of  this  has  frequently 
met  him  in  his  latter  days,  about  1790  or  1791,  re- 
turning in  an  evening  after  his  long  day's  itineracy, 
to  his  domicile, — a  wretched  shed  in  the  most  beg- 
garly purlieu  of  Bethnal  Green,  a  little  on  this  side 
the  Mile-end  Turnpike.  The  lower  figure  in  that 
leaf  most  correctly  describes  his  then  appearance, 
except  that  no  graphic  art  can  convey  an  idea  of 
the  general  squalor  of  it,  and  of  his  bag  (his  con- 
stant concomitant)  in  particular.  Whether  it  con- 
tained "  old  wigs"  at  that  time,  I  know  not  ;  but 
it  seemed  a  fitter  repository  for  bones  snatched  out 
of  kennels  than  for  any  part  of  a  gentleman's  dress, 
even  at  secondhand. 

The  ex-member  for  Garrat  was  a  melancholy  in- 
stance of  a  great  man  whose  popularity  is  worn 
out.  He  still  carried  his  sack ;  but  it  seemed  a 
part  of  his  identity  rather  than  an  implement  of 
his  profession  \  a  badge  of  past  grandeur :  could 


272  ELI  ANA. 

anything  have  divested  him  of  that,  he  would  have 
showni  a  "  poor  forked  animal  "  indeed.  My  life 
upon  it,  it  contained  no  curls  at  the  time  I  speak 
of.  The  most  decayed  and  spiritless  remnants  oi 
what  was  once  a  peruke  would  have  scorned  the 
filthy  case;  would  absolutely  have  "burst  its  cere- 
ments. "  No  :  it  was  empty,  or  brought  home  bones, 
or  a  few  cinders,  possibly.  A  strong  odour  of 
burnt  bones,  I  remember,  blended  with  the  scent 
of  horse-flesh  seething  into  dog's  meat,  and,  only 
relieved  a  little  by  the  breathings  of  a  few  brick- 
kilns, made  up  the  atmosphere  of  the  delicate 
suburban  spot  which  this  great  man  had  chosen 
for  the  last  scene  of  his  earthly  vanities.  The  cry 
of  "old  wigs"  had  ceased  with  the  possession  of 
any  such  fripperies :  his  sack  might  have  contained 
not  unaptly  a  little  mould  to  scatter  upon  that 
grave  to  which  he  was  now  advancing  ;  but  it  told 
of  vacancy  and  desolation.  His  quips  were  silent 
too,  and  his  brain  was  empty  as  his  sack  :  he  slank 
along,  and  seemed  to  decline  popular  observation. 
If  a  few  boys  followed  him,  it  seemed  rather  from 
habit  than  any  expectation  of  fun. 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  kim, 
The  Ufe  of  humour,  and  the  soul  of  whim, 
Gallant  and  gay  on  Garrat's  hustings  proud  ! 

But  it  is  thus  thai  the  world  rewards  its  favourites 
in  decay.  What  faults  he  had,  I  know  not.  I  have 
heard  something  of  a  peccadillo  or  so.  But  some 
little  deviation  from  the  precise  line  of  rectitude 
might  have  been  winked  at  in  so  tortuous  and  stig- 
matic  a  frame.  Poor  Sir  Jeffery!  it  were  well  if 
some  M.P.s  in  earnest  have  passed  their  parlia- 
mentary existence  with  no  more  offences  against 
integrity  than  could  be  laid  to  thy  charge  !     A  fair 


REMINISCENCE  OF  SIR  J.  DUNSTAN.    273 

dismissal  was  thy  due,  not  so  unkind  a  degradation ; 
some  little  snug  retreat,  with  a  bit  of  green  before 
thine  eyes,  and  not  a  burial  alive  in  the  fetid  beg- 
garies of  Bethnal.  Thou  wouldst  have  ended  thy 
days  in  a  manner  more  appropriate  to  thy  pristine 
dignity,  installed  in  munificent  mockery  (as  in 
mock  honours  you  had  lived), — a  poor  knight  of 
Windsor ! 

Every  distinct  place  of  public  speaking  demands 
an  oratory  peculiar  to  itself.  The  forensic  fails 
within  the  walls  of  St.  Stephen.  Sir  Jeffery  was 
a  living  instance  of  this  ;  for,  in  the  flower  of  his 
popularity,  an  attempt  was  made  to  bring  him  out 
upon  the  stage  (at  which  of  the  winter  theatres  I 
forget,  but  I  well  remember  the  anecdote)  in  the 
i^^xi  oi  Doctor  Last}  The  announcement  drew  a 
crowded  house  ;  but,  notwithstanding  infinite  tu- 
toring,— by  Foote  or  Garrick,  I  forget  which, — 
when  the  curtain  drew  up,  the  heart  of  Sir  Jeffery 
failed,  and  he  faltered  on,  and  made  nothing  of 
his  part,  till  the  hisses  of  the  house  at  last,  in  very 
kindness,  dismissed  him  from  the  boards.  Great 
as  his  parliamentary  eloquence  had  shown  itself, 
brilliantly  as  his  off-hand  sallies  had  sparkled  on  a 
hustings,  they  here  totally  failed  him.  Perhaps 
he  had  an  aversion  to  borrowed  wit,  and,  like  my 
Lord  Foppingt-on,  disdained  to  entertain  himselt 
(or  others)  with  the  forced  products  of  another 
man's  brain.  Your  man  of  quality  is  more  di- 
verted with  the  natural  sprouts  of  his  own. 

1  It  was  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre. 


ON  A  PASSAGE  IN  "THE  TEMPEST." 


^^IS  long  as  I  can  remember  the  play  of 
"  The  Tempest,"  one  passage  in  it  has 
(^w^,,,,^,  always  set  me  upon  wondering.  It  has 
^^^•^<^|  puzzled  me  beyond  measure.  In  vain 
I  strove  to  find  the  meaning  of  it.  I  seemed 
doomed  to  cherish  infinite,  hopeless  curiosity. 

It  is  where  Prospero,  relating  the  banishment  of 
Sycorax  from  Argier,  adds  : — 

For  one  thing  that  she  did, 
They  would  not  take  her  life. 

How  have  I  pondered  over  this  when  a  boy! 
How  have  I  longed  for  some  authentic  memoir  of 
the  witch  to  clear  up  the  obscurity!  Was  the 
story  extant  in  the  chronicles  of  Algiers  ?  Could 
I  get  at  it  by  some  fortunate  introduction  to  the 
Algerine  ambassador  ?  Was  a  voyage  thither  prac- 
ticable? The  Spectator,  I  knew,  went  to  Grand 
Cairo  only  to  measure  the  pyramid.  Was  not  the 
object  of  my  quest  of  at  least  as  much  importance  ? 
The  blue-eyed  hag !  could  she  have  done  anything 
good  or  meritorious  ?  might  that  succubus  relent  ? 
then  might  there  be  hope  for  the  Devil.  I  have 
often  admired  since  that  none  of  the  commentators 
have  boggled  at  this   passage;   how   they  could 


ON  A  PASSAGE  IN  "THE  TEMPEST."     273 

swallow  this  camel, — such  a  tantalizing  piece  of  ob 
scurity,  such  an  abortion  of  an  anecdote. 

At  length,  I  think  I  have  lighted  upon  a  clue 
which  may  lead  to  show  what  was  passing  in  the 
mind  of  Shakespeare  when  he  dropped  this  imper- 
fect rumour.  In  the  "  Accurate  Description  of 
Africa,  by  John  Ogilby  (folio),  1670,"  page  230, 
I  find  written  as  follows.  The  marginal  title  to 
the  narrative  is,  "Charles  the  Fifth  besieges  Al- 
gier:"— 

"In  the  last  place,  we  will  briefly  give  an  ac- 
count of  the  emperour,  Charles  the  Fifth,  when  he 
besieg'd  this  city  ;  and  of  the  great  loss  he  suffer'd 
therein. 

"This  prince,  in  the  year  one  thousand  five 
hundred  forty-one,  having  embarqued  upontheseaan 
army  of  twenty-two  thousand  men  aboard  eighteen 
gallies,  and  an  hundred  tall  ships,  not  counting  the 
barques  and  shallops,  and  other  small  boats,  in 
which  he  had  engaged  the  principal  of  the  Spanish 
and  Italian  nobility,  with  a  good  number  of  the 
Knights  of  Malta ;  he  was  to  land  on  the  coasts  of 
Barbary,  at  a  cape  call'd  Matifou.  From  this 
place  unto  the  city  of  Algier,  a  flat  shore  or  strand 
extends  itself  for  about  four  leagues,  the  which  is 
exceeding  favourable  to  gallies.  There  he  put 
ashore  with  his  army,  and  in  a  few  days  caused  a 
fortress  to  be  built,  which  unto  this  day  is  call'd 
the  castle  of'the  Emperour. 

' '  In  the  meantime  the  city  of  Algier  took  the 
alarm,  having  in  it  at  that  time  but  eight  hundred 
Turks,  and  six  thousand  Moors,  poor-spirited  men, 
and  unexercised  in  martial  affairs  ;  besides  it  was 
at  that  time  fortifi'd  only  with  walls,  and  had  no 
outworks  :  insomuch  that  by  reason  of  its  weakness, 
and  the  gi'eat  forces  of  the  Emperour,  it  could  not 


27C  ELI  AN  A. 

in  appearance  escape  taking.  In  fine,  it  was  at- 
tempted with  such  order,  that  the  army  came  up  to 
the  very  gates,  where  the  ChevaUer  de  Sauignac,  a 
Frenchman  by  nation,  made  himself  remarkable 
above  all  the  rest,  by  the  miracles  of  his  valour. 
For  having  repulsed  the  Turks,  who,  having  made 
a  sally  at  the  gate  call'd  Babason,  and  there  de- 
siring to  enter  along  with  them,  when  he  saw  that 
they  shut  the  gate  upon  him,  he  ran  his  ponyard 
into  the  same,  and  left  it  sticking  deep  therein. 
They  next  fell  to  battering  the  city  by  the  force  of 
cannon  ;  which  the  assailants  so  weakened,  that  in 
that  great  extremity  the  defendants  lost  their  cou- 
rage, and  resolved  to  surrender. 

"  But  as  they  were  thus  intending,  there  was  a 
witch  of  the  town,  whom  the  history  does  not  name, 
which  went  to  seek  out  Assam  Aga,  that  com- 
manded within,  and  pray'd  him  to  make  it  good 
yet  nine  days  longer,  with  assurance,  that  within 
that  time  he  should  infallibly  see  Algier  delivered 
from  that  siege,  and  the  whole  army  of  the  enemy 
dispersed,  so  that  Christians  should  be  as  cheap  as 
birds.  In  a  word,  the  thing  did  happen  in  the 
manner  as  foretold  ;  for  upon  the  twenty-first  day 
of  October,  in  the  same  year,  there  fell  a  continual 
rain  upon  the  land,  and  so  furious  a  storm  at  sea, 
that  one  might  have  seen  ships  hoisted  into  the 
clouds,  and  in  one  instant  again  precipitated  into 
the  bottom  of  the  water :  insomuch  that  the  same 
dreadful  tempest  was  followed  with  the  loss  of 
fifteen  gallies,  and  above  an  hundred  other  vessels  ; 
which  was  the  cause  why  the  Emperour,  seeing  his 
army  wasted  by  the  bad  weather,  pursued  by  a 
famine,  occasioned  by  wrack  of  his  ships,  in  which 
was  the  greatest  part  of  his  victuals  and  ammuni- 
tion, he  was  constrain'd  to  raise  the  siege,  and  set 


ON  A  PASSAGE  IN  "  THE  TEMPEST."    277 

sail  for  Sicily,  whithei-  he  retreated  with  the  mise- 
rable reliques  of  his  fleet. 

"In  the  meantime  that  witch  being  acknow- 
ledged the  deliverer  of  Algier,  was  richly  remune- 
rated, and  the  credit  of  her  charms  authorized.  So 
that  ever  since,  witchcraft  hath  been  very  freely 
tolerated  ;  of  which  the  chief  of  the  town,  and  even 
those  who  are  esteem'd  to  be  of  greatest  sanctity 
among  them,  such  as  are  the  Marabous,  a  religious 
order  of  their  sect,  do  for  the  most  part  make  pro- 
fession of  it,  under  a  goodly  pretext  of  certain  reve- 
lations which  they  say  they  have  had  from  their 
prophet,  Mahomet. 

"And  hereupon  those  of  Algier,  to  palliate  the 
shame  and  the  reproaches  that  are  thrown  upon 
them  for  making  use  of  a  witch  in  the  danger  of 
this  siege,  do  say  that  the  loss  of  the  forces  of 
Charles  V.  was  caused  by  a  prayer  of  one  of  their 
Marabous,  named  Cidy  Utica,  which  was  at  that 
time  in  great  credit,  not  under  the  notion  of  a  ma- 
gitian,  but  for  a  person  of  a  holy  life.  Afterwards 
in  remembrance  of  their  success,  they  have  erected 
unto  him  a  small  mosque  without  the  Babason  gate, 
where  he  is  buried,  and  in  which  they  keep  sundry 
lamps  burning  in  honour  of  him ;  nay,  they  some- 
times repair  thither  to  make  their  sala,  for  a  testi- 
mony of  greater  veneration. " 

Can  it  be  doubted,  for  a  moment,  that  the  dra- 
matist had  come  fresh  from  reading  some  older 
narrative  of  this  deliverance  of  Algier  by  a  v^tch, 
and  transferred  the  merit  of  the  deed  to  his  Sycorax, 
exchanging  only  the  "rich  remuneration,"  which 
did  not  suit  his  purpose,  to  the  simple  pardon  of 
her  life  ?  Ogilby  wrote  in  1670  ;  but  the  authorities 
to  which  he  refers  for  his  account  of  Barbary  are 
Johannes   de    Leo   or  Africanus,   Louis    Marmol, 


273 


ELI  ANA. 


Diego  de  Haedo,  Johannes  Gramaye,  Braeves,  Cel. 
Curio,  and  Diego  de  Torres,  names  totally  unknown 
to  me,  and  to  which  I  beg  leave  to  refer  the  curious 
reader  for  his  fuller  satisfaction. 


THE    MONTHS. 


'  UMMAGING  over  the  contents  of  an 
old  stall  at  a  h3.\{l>ook,  half  old-iron  shop, 
in  an  alley  leading  from  Wardour  Street 
.-^„=^-„  to  Soho  Square,  yesterday,  I  lit  upon  a 
ragged  duodecimo  which  had  been  the  strange  de- 
light of  my  infancy,  and  which  I  had  lost  sight  of 
for  more  than  forty  years,— the  "Queen-like  Closet, 
or  Rich  Cabinet ; "  written  by  Hannah  Woolly, 
and  printed  for  R.  C.  and  T.  S.,  1681  ;  being  an 
abstract  of  receipts  in  cookery,  confectionery,  cos- 
metics, needlework,  morality,  and  all  such  branches 
of  what  were  then  considered  as  female  accom- 
plishments. The  price  demanded  was  sixpence, 
which  the  owner  (a  little  squab  duodecimo  cha- 
racter himself)  enforced  with  the  assurance  that  his 
"  own  mother  should  not  have  it  for  a  farthing  less. " 
On  my  demurring  at  this  extraordinary  assertion, 
the  dirty  little  vendor  reinforced  his  assertion  with 
a  sort  of  oath,  which  seemed  more  than  the  oc- 
casion demanded  :  "And  now,"  said  he,  "  I  have 
put  my  soul  to  it. "  Pressed  by  so  solemn  an  as- 
severation, I  could  no  longer  resist  a  demand  which 
seemed  to  set  me,  however  unworthy,  upon  a  level 
with  his  dearest  relations  ;  and,  depositing  a  tester, 
I  bore  away  the  tattered  prize  in  triumph.     I  re- 


28o  ELI  ANA. 

membered  a  gorgeous  description  ot  the  twelve 
months  of  the  year,  which  I  thought  would  be  a 
fine  substitute  for  those  poetical  descriptions  of 
them  which  your  "  Every-day  Book  "  had  nearly 
exhausted  out  of  Spenser.  "This  will  be  a  treat," 
thought  I,  "for  friend  Hone."  To  memory  they 
seemed  no  less  fantastic  and  splendid  than  the 
other.  But  what  are  the  mistakes  of  childhood  ! 
On  reviewing  them,  they  turned  out  to  be  only  a 
set  of  commonplace  receipts  for  working  the  sea- 
sons, months,  heathen  gods  and  goddesses,  &c.,  in 
samplers!  Yet,  as  an  instance  of  the  homely  oc- 
cupation of  our  gi-eat -grand  mothers,  they  may  b^ 
amusing  to  some  readers.  "  I  have  seen,"  says  the 
notable  Hannah  Woolly,  "  such  ridiculous  things 
done  in  work,  as  it  is  an  abomination  to  any  artist 
to  behold.  As  for  example  :  You  may  find,  in  some 
pieces,  Abraham  and  Sarah,  and  many  other  per- 
sons of  old  time,  clothed  as  they  go  now-a-days, 
and  truly  sometimes  worse  ;  for  they  most  resemble 
the  pictures  on  ballads.  Let  all  ingenious  women 
have  regard,  that  when  they  work  any  image,  to 
represent  it  aright.  First,  let  it  be  drawn  well,  and 
then  observe  the  directions  which  are  given  by 
knowing  men.  I  do  assure  you,  I  never  durst  work 
any  Scripture  story  without  informing  myself  from 
the  ground  of  it ;  nor  any  other  story,  or  single 
person,  without  informing  myself  both  of  the  visage 
and  habit :  as  foUoweth  : — 

' '  If  you  work  yupiter,  the  imperial  feigned  Cod, 
he  must  have  long,  black,  curled  hair,  a  purple 
garment  trimmed  with  gold,  and  sitting  upon  a 
golden  throne,  with  bright  yellow  clouds  about 
him," 


THE  MONTHS.  281 

THE  TWELVE   MONTHS  OF  THE  YEAR. 

March,  Is  drawn  in  tawny,  with  a  fierce  aspect : 
a  helmet  upon  his  head,  and  leaning  on  a  spade ; 
and  a  basket  of  garden-seeds  in  his  left  hand,  and 
in  his  right  hand  the  sign  oi  Aries ;  and  winged. 

April.  A  young  man  in  green,  with  a  garland 
of  myrtle  and  hawthorn-buds ;  winged  ;  in  one 
hand  primroses  and  violets,  in  the  other  the  sign 
Taurtis, 

May.  With  a  sweet  and  lovely  countenance ; 
clad  in  a  robe  of  white  and  green,  embroidered  with 
several  flowers  ;  upon  his  head  a  garden  of  all  man- 
ner of  roses  ;  on  the  one  hand  a  nightingale,  in  the 
other  a  lute.     His  sign  must  be  a  Gemini. 

yune.  In  a  mantle  of  dark  grass-green  ;  upon 
his  head  a  garland  of  bents,  kings-cups,  and  maiden- 
hair ;  in  his  left  hand  an  angle,  with  a  box  of 
cantharides ;  in  his  right,  the  sign  Cancer ;  and 
upon  his  arms  a  basket  of  seasonable  fruits. 

y-uly.  In  a  jacket  of  light  yellow,  eating  cher- 
ries ;  with  his  face  and  bosom  sun-burnt ;  on  his 
head  a  wreath  of  centaury  and  wild  thyme  ;  a  sc5rthe 
on  his  shoulder,  and  a  bottle  at  his  girdle  ;  carrying 
the  sign  Leo. 

August.  A  young  man  of  fierce  and  choleric 
aspect,  in  a  flame-coloured  garment ;  upon  his  head 
a  garland  of  wheat  and  rye  ;  upon  his  arm  a  basket 
of  all  manner  of  ripe  fruits  ;  at  his  belt  a  sickle  : 
his  sign  Virgo. 

September.  A  merry  and  cheerful  countenance, 
in  a  purple  robe  ;  upon  his  head  a  wreath  of  red 
and  white  grapes ;  in  his  left  hand  a  handful  of 
oats  ;  withal  carrying  a  horn  of  plenty,  full  of  all 
manner  of  ripe  fruits ;  in  his  nght  hand  the  sign 
Libra. 


October.     In  a  garment  of  yellow  and  carnation 
upon  his  head  a  garland  of  oak-leaves  with  acorns  ; 
in  his  right  hand  the  sign  Scorpio;  in  his  left  hand 
a  basket  of  medlars,  services,  and  chestnuts,  and 
any  other  fruits  then  iu  season. 

November.  In  a  garment  of  changeable  green 
and  black  :  upon  his  head  a  garland  of  olives,  with 
the  fruit  in  his  left  hand  ;  bunches  of  parsnips  and 
turnips  in  his  right  :  his  sign  Sagittaritis. 

December.  A  horrid  and  fearful  aspect,  clad  in 
Irish  rags,  or  coarse  frieze  girt  unto  him  ;  upon  his 
head  three  or  four  night-caps,  and  over  them  a 
Turkish  turban  ;  his  nose  red,  his  mouth  and  beard 
clogged  with  icicles  ;  at  his  back  a  bundle  of  holly, 
ivy,  or  mistletoe  ;  holding  in  furred  mittens  the 
sign  of  Capricornus. 

yamiary.  Clad  all  in  white,  as  the  earth  looks 
with  the  snow,  blowing  his  nails  ;  in  his  left  arm  a 
billet ;  the  sign  Aquarius  standing  by  his  side. 

Febrzmjy.  Clothed  in  a  dark  sky-colour,  car- 
rying in  his  right  hand  the  sign  Pisces. 

The  following  receipt  "To  dress  up  a  chimney 
very  fine  for  the  summer-time,  as  I  have  done 
many,  and  they  have  been  liked  very  well,"  may 
not  be  unprofitable  to  the  housewives  of  this  cen- 
tuiy : — 

"First,  take  a  pack-thread^  and  fasten  it  even  to 
the  inner  part  of  the  chimney,  so  high  as  that  you  can 
see  no  higher  as  you  walk  up  and  down  the  house. 
You  must  drive  in  several  nails  to  hold  up  all  your 
work.  Then  get  good  store  of  old  green  moss  from 
trees,  and  melt  an  equal  proportion  of  beeswax  and 
rosin  together  ;  and,  while  it  is  hot,  dip  the  wrong 
ends  of  the  moss  in  it,  and  presently  clap  it  upon 
your  pack-thread,  and  press  it  down  hard  with  your 
hand.     You  must  make  haste,  or  else  it  will  cool 


THE  MONTHS.  283 

before  you  can  fasten  it,  and  then  it  will  fall  down. 
Do  so  all  around  where  the  pack-thread  goes  ;  and 
the  next  row  you  must  join  to  that,  so  that  it  may 
seem  all  in  one  :  thus  do  till  you  have  finished  it 
down  to  the  bottom.  Then  take  some  other  kind 
of  moss,  of  a  whitish  colour  and  stiff,  and  of  several 
sorts  or  kinds,  and  place  that  upon  the  other,  here 
and  there  carelessly,  and  in  some  places  put  a  good 
deal,  and  some  a  little  ;  then  any  kind  of  fine  snail- 
shells,  in  which  the  snails  are  dead,  and  little  toad- 
stools, which  are  very  old,  and  look  like  velvet,  or 
any  other  thing  that  was  old  and  pretty:  place  it 
here  and  there  as  your  fancy  serves,  and  fasten  all 
with  wax  and  rosin.  Then,  for  the  hearth  of  your 
chimney,  you  may  lay  some  orpan-sprigs  in  order 
all  over,  and  it  will  grow  as  it  lies  ;  and,  according 
to  the  season,  get  what  flowers  you  can,  and  stick 
in  as  if  they  grew,  and  a  few  sprigs  of  sweet-briar  : 
the  flowers  you  must  renew  every  week ;  but  the 
moss  will  last  all  the  summer,  till  it  will  be  time  to 
make  a  fire  ;  and  the  orpan  will  last  near  two 
months.  A  chimney  thus  done  doth  grace  a  room 
exceedingly. " 

One  phrase  in  the  above  should  particularly  re- 
commend it  to  such  of  your  female  readers  as,  in 
the  nice  language  of  the  day,  have  done  growing 
some  time,  — "little  toad-stools,  &c.,  and  anything 
that  is  old  and  pretty."  Was  ever  antiquity  so 
smoothed  over?  The  culinaiy  recipes  have  nothing 
remarkable  in  them,  except  the  costliness  of  them. 
Every  thing  (to  the  meanest  meats)  is  sopped  in 
claret,  steeped  in  claret,  basted  with  claret,  as  if 
claret  were  as  cheap  as  ditch-water.  I  remember 
Bacon  recommends  opening  a  turf  or  two  in  your 
garden  walks,  and  pouring  into  each  a  bottle  of 
claret,  to  recreate  the  sense  of  smelling,  being  no 


2S4  ELI  ANA. 

less  gn.teful  than  beneficial.  We  hope  the  Chan- 
cellar  of  the  Exchequer  will  attend  to  this  in  his 
next  reduction  of  French  wines,  that  we  may  once 
more  water  our  gardens  with  right  Bordeaux.  The 
medical  recipes  are  as  whimsical  as  they  are  cruel. 
Our  ancestors  were  not  at  all  effeminate  on  this 
head.  Modern  sentimentalists  would  shrink  at  a 
cock  plucked  and  bruised  in  a  mortar  alive  to  make 
a  cullis,  or  a  live  mole  baked  in  an  oven  (be  sure  it 
be  alive)  to  make  a  powder  for  consumption.  But 
the  whimsicalest  of  all  are  the  directions  to  servants 
(for  this  little  book  is  a  compendium  of  all  duties ) : 
the  footman  is  sei^iously  admonished  not  to  stand 
lolling  against  his  master's  chair  while  he  waits  at 
table  ;  for  "  to  lean  on  a  chair  when  they  wait  is 
a  particular  favour  shown  to  any  superior  servant, 
as  the  chief  gentleman,  or  the  waiting- woman  when 
she  rises  from  the  table."  Also  he  must  not  "  hold 
the  plates  before  his  mouth  to  be  defiled  with  his 
breath,  nor  touch  them  on  the  right  [inner]  side." 
Surely  Swift  must  have  seen  this  little  treatise. 

Hannah  concludes  with  the  following  address, 
by  which  the  self-estimate  which  she  formed  of  her 
usefulness  may  be  calculated : — 

Ladies,  I  hope  you're  pleased,  and  so  shall  I, 
If  what  I  ve  writ,  you  may  be  gainers  by  : 
If  not,  it  is  your  fault,  it  is  not  mine. 
Your  benefit  in  this  I  do  design. 
Much  labour  and  much  time  it  hath  me  cost. 
Therefore,  I  beg,  let  none  of  it  be  lost. 
The  money  you  shall  pay  for  this  my  book. 
You'll  not  repent  of^  when  in  it  you  look. 
!No  more  at  present  to  you  I  shall  say. 
But  wish  you  all  the  happiness  I  may 


BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR. 
LISTON. 

^^§S^^1HE  subject  of  our  Memoir  is  lineally 
^S5lvlra»  descended  from  Johan  de  L'Estonne 
(see  "Domesday  Book,"  where  he  is 
so  written),  who  came  in  with  the 
Conqueror,  and  had  lands  awarded  him  at  Lupton 
Magna,  in  Kent.  His  particular  merits  or  services, 
Fabian,  whose  authority  I  chiefly  follow,  has  for- 
gotten, or  perhaps  thought  it  immaterial,  to  specify. 
Fuller  thinks  that  he  was  standard-bearer  to  Hugo 
de  Agmondesham,  a  powerful  Norman  baron,  who 
was  slain  by  the  hand  of  Harold  himself  at  the  fatal 
battle  of  Hastings.  Be  this  as  it  may,  we  find  a 
family  of  that  name  flourishing  some  centuries  later 
in  that  county.  John  Delliston,  knight,  was  High 
Sheriff  for  Kent,  according  to  Fabian,  quinto  Hen- 
rici  Scxti ;  and  we  trace  the  lineal  branch  flourish- 
ing downwards, — the  orthography  varying,  accord- 
ing to  the  unsettled  usage  of  the  times,  from  Del- 
leston  to  Leston  or  Liston,  between  which  it  seems 
to  have  alternated,  till,  in  the  latter  end  of  the 
reign  of  James  I.,  it  finally  settled  into  the  deter- 
minate and  pleasing  dissyllabic  arrangement  which 
it  still  retains.  Aminadab  Liston,  the  eldest  male 
representative  of  the  family  of  that  day,  was  of  the 


strictest  order  of  Puritans.  Mr.  Foss,  of  Pall  Mall, 
has  obligingly  communicated  to  me  an  undoubted 
tract  of  his,  which  bears  the  initials  only,  A.  L., 
and  is  entitled,  "The  Grinning  Glass,  or  Actor's 
Mirrour ;  where  in  the  vituperative  Visnomy  of 
Vicious  Players  for  the  Scene  is  as  virtuously  re- 
flected back  upon  their  mimetic  Monstrosities  as  it 
has  viciously  (hitherto)  vitiated  with  its  vile  Vani- 
ties her  Votarists. "  A  strange  title,  but  bearing  the 
impress  of  those  absurdities  with  which  the  title- 
pages  of  that  pamphlet-spawning  age  abounded. 
The  work  bears  date  1617.  It  preceded  the  "  His- 
triomastix  "  by  fifteen  years  ;  and,  as  it  went  before 
it  in  time,  so  it  comes  not  far  short  of  it  in  virulence. 
It  is  amusing  to  find  an  ancestor  of  Liston's  thus 
bespattering  the  players  at  the  commencement  of 
the  seventeenth  century : — 

"Thinketh  He"  (the  actor),  "with  his  costive 
countenances,  to  wry  a  sorrowing  soul  out  of  her 
anguish,  or  by  defacing  the  divine  denotement  of 
destinate  dignity  (daignely  described  in  the  face 
humane  and  no  other)  to  reinstamp  the  Paradice- 
plotted  similitude  with  a  novel  and  naughty  ap- 
proximation (not  in  the  first  intention)  to  those 
abhon-ed  and  ugly  God-forbidden  correspondences, 
with  flouting  Apes'  jeering  gibberings,  and  Babion 
babbling-like,  to  hoot  out  of  countenance  all  modest 
measure,  as  if  our  sins  were  not  sufficing  to  stoop 
out  backs  without  He  wresting  and  crooking  his 
members  to  mistimed  mirth  (rather  malice)  in  de- 
formed fashion,  leering  when  he  should  learn, 
prating  for  praying,  goggling  his  eyes  (better  up- 
turned for  grace),  whereas  in  Paradice  (if  we  can 
go  thus  high  for  His  profession)  that  develish  Ser- 
pent appeareth  his  undoubted  Predecessor,  first  in- 
duing a  mask  like  some  roguish  roistering  Roscius 


MEMOIR   OF  MR.  LIS  TON.  387 

(I  spit  at  them  all)  to  beguile  with  Stage  shows 
the  gaping  Woman,  whose  Sex  hath  still  chiefly 
upheld  these  Mysteries,  and  are  voiced  to  be  the 
chief  Stage-haunters,  where,  as  I  am  told,  the 
custom  is  commonly  to  mumble  (between  acts) 
apples,  not  ambiguously  derived  from  that  per- 
nicious Pippin  (worse  in  effect  than  the  Apples  of 
Discord),  whereas  sometimes  the  hissing  sounds  of 
displeasure,  as  I  hear,  do  lively  reintonate  that 
snake-taking-leave,  and  diabolical  goings  off,  in 
Paradice. " 

The  Puritanic  effervescence  of  the  early  Presby- 
terians appears  to  have  abated  with  time,  and  the 
opinions  of  the  more  immediate  ancestors  of  our 
subject  to  have  subsided  at  length  into  a  strain  of 
moderate  Calvinism.  Still  a  tincture  of  the  old 
leaven  was  to  be  expected  among  the  posterity  of 
A.  L. 

Our  hero  was  an  only  son  of  Ilabakkuk  Listen, 
settled  as  an  Anabaptist  minister  upon  the  patri- 
monial soil  of  his  ancestors.  A  regular  certificate 
appears,  thus  entered  in  the  Church-book  at  Lup- 
ton  Magna: — "Johannes,  Jilius  Hahakktik  et  Ke- 
bccccB  Listen,  Dissentientium,  natus  qiiinto  Decem- 
bri,  1 780,  baptizatus  sexto  Februarii  scquentis ; 
Sponsoribus  y.  et  W.  VVoollaston,  und  ciun  Maria 
Menyiveather."  The  singularity  of  an  Anabaptist 
minister  conforming  to  the  child-rites  of  the  Church 
would  have  tempted  me  to  doubt  the  authenticity 
of  this  entry,  had  I  not  been  obliged  with  the  actual 
sight  of  it  by  the  favour  of  Mr.  Minns,  the  intel- 
ligent and  worthy  parish  clerk  of  Lupton.  Pos- 
sibly some  expectation  in  point  of  worldly  advan- 
tages from  some  of  the  sponsors  might  have  induced 
this  unseemly  deviation,  as  it  must  have  appeared, 
from  the  practice  and  principles  of  that  generally 


288  EL  I  AN  A. 

rigid  sect.  The  term  Dissentientium  was  possibly 
intended  by  the  orthodox  clergyman  as  a  slur  upon 
the  supposed  inconsistency.  WHiat,  or  of  what 
nature,  the  expectations  we  have  hinted  at  may 
have  been,  we  have  now  no  means  of  ascertaining. 
Of  the  Woollastons  no  trace  is  now  discoverable 
in  the  village.  The  name  of  Merryweather  occurs 
over  the  front  of  a  grocer's  shop  at  the  western  ex- 
tremity of  Lupton. 

Of  the  infant  Liston  we  find  no  events  recorded 
before  his  fourth  year,  in  which  a  severe  attack  of 
the  measles  bid  fair  to  have  robbed  the  rising  gene- 
ration of  a  fund  of  innocent  entertainment.  He 
had  it  of  the  confluent  kind,  as  it  is  called  ;  and 
the  child's  life  was  for  a  week  or  two  despaired  of. 
His  recovery  he  always  attributes  (under  Heaven) 
to  the  humane  interference  of  one  Dr.  Wilhelm 
Richter,  a  German  empiric,  who,  in  this  extremity, 
prescribed  a  copious  diet  of  sauer-kratit,  which  the 
child  was  observed  to  reach  at  with  avidity,  when 
other  food  repelled  him  ;  and  from  this  change  of 
diet  his  restoration  was  rapid  and  complete.  We 
have  often  heard  him  name  the  circumstance  with 
gratitude  ;  and  it  is  not  altogether  surprising  that 
a  relish  for  this  kind  of  aliment,  so  abhorrent  and 
harsh  to  common  English  palates,  has  accompanied 
him  through  life.  When  any  of  Mr.  Liston's  inti- 
mates invite  him  to  supper,  he  never  fails  of  find- 
ing, nearest  to  his  knife  and  fork,  a  dish  ofsatter- 
kratit. 

At  the  age  of  nine,  we  find  our  subject  under 
the  tuition  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Goodenough  (his  father's 
health  not  permitting  him  probably  to  instruct 
him  himself),  by  whom  he  was  inducted  into  a 
competent  portion  of  Latin  and  Greek,  with  some 
mathematics,  till  the  death  of  Mr.  Goodenough,  in 


MEMOIR   OF  MR.   LIS  TON.  289 

his  own  seventieth,  and  Master  Liston's  eleventh 
year,  put  a  stop  for  tlie  present  to  his  classical 
progress. 

We  have  heard  our  hero,  with  emotions  which  do 
his  heart  honour,  describe  tlie  awful  circumstances 
attending  the  decease  of  this  worthy  old  gentleman. 
It  seems  they  had  been  walking  out  together, 
master  and  pupil,  in  a  fine  sunset,  to  the  distance 
of  three-quarters  of  a  mile  west  of  Lnpton,  when  a 
sudden  curiosity  took  Mr.  Goodenough  to  look 
down  upon  a  chasm,  where  a  shaft  had  been  lately 
sunk  in  a  mining  speculation  (then  projecting,  but 
abandoned  soon  after,  as  not  answering  the  pro- 
mised success,  by  Sir  Ralph  Shepperton,  knight, 
and  member  for  the  county).  The  old  clergyman 
leaning  over,  either  with  incaution  or  sudden  gid- 
diness (probably  a  mixture  of  both),  suddenly  lost 
his  footing,  and,  to  use  Mr.  Liston's  phrase,  dis 
appeared,  and  was  doubtless  broken  into  a  thou- 
sand pieces.  The  sound  of  his  head,  &c.,  dashing 
successively  upon  the  projecting  masses  of  tlie 
chasm,  had  such  an  effect  upon  the  child,  that  a 
serious  sickness  ensued  ;  and,  even  for  many  years 
after  his  recovery,  he  was  not  once  seen  so  much 
as  to  smile. 

The  joint  death  of  both  his  parents,  which  hap- 
pened not  many  months  after  this  disastrous  acci- 
dent, and  were  probably  (one  or  both  of  them) 
accelerated  by  it,  threw  our  youth  upon  the  pro- 
tection of  his  maternal  great-aunt,  Mrs.  Sitting- 
bourn.  Of  this  aunt  we  have  never  heard  him 
speak  but  with  expressions  amounting  almost  to 
reverence.  To  the  influence  of  her  early  counsels 
and  manners  he  has  always  attributed  the  firmness 
with  which,  in  maturer  years,  thrown  upon  a  way 
of  life  commonly  not  the  best  adapted  to  gravity 

II.  u 


290  EL  I  ANA. 

and  self-retirement,  he  has  been  able  to  maintain 
a  serious  character  untinctured  with  the  levities  in- 
cident to  his  profession.  Ann  Sittingbourn  (we 
have  seen  her  portrait  by  Hudson)  was  stately,  stiff, 
tall,  with  a  cast  of  features  strikingly  resembling  the 
subject  of  this  memoir.  Her  estate  in  Kent  was 
spacious  and  well  wooded ;  the  house  one  of  those 
venerable  old  mansions  which  are  so  impressive  in 
childhood,  and  so  hardly  forgotten  in  succeeding 
years.  In  the  venerable  solitudes  of  Chamwood, 
among  thick  shades  of  the  oak  and  beech  (this  last 
his  favourite  tree),  the  young  Liston  cultivated 
those  contemplative  habits  which  have  never  en- 
tirely deserted  him  in  after  years.  Here  he  was 
commonly  in  the  summer  months  to  be  met  with, 
with  a  book  in  his  hand, — not  a  play-book, — me- 
ditating. Boyle's  "  Reflections  "  was  at  onetime 
the  darling  volume  ;  which,  in  its  turn,  was  super- 
seded by  Young's  "Night  Thoughts,"  which  has 
continued  its  hold  upon  him  through  life.  He 
carries  it  always  about  him ;  and  it  is  no  uncommon 
thing  for  him  to  be  seen,  in  the  refreshing  intervals 
of  his  occupation,  leaning  against  a  side-scene,  in 
a  sort  of  Herbert-of-Cherbury  posture,  turning  over 
a  pocket-edition  of  his  favourite  author. 

But  the  solitudes  of  Charnwood  were  not  des- 
tined always  to  obscure  the  path  of  our  young 
hero.  The  premature  death  of  Mrs.  Sittingbourn,  at 
the  age  of  seventy,  occasioned  by  incautious  burn- 
ing of  a  pot  of  charcoal  in  her  sleeping-chamber, 
left  him  in  his  nineteenth  year  nearly  without  re- 
sources. That  the  stage  at  all  should  have  pre- 
sented itself  as  an  eligible  scope  for  his  talents, 
and,  in  particular,  that  he  should  have  chosen  a 
line  so  foreign  to  what  appears  to  have  been  his 
turn  of  mind,  may  require  some  explanation. 


MEMOIR   OF  MR.   LISTON.  291 

At  Charnwood,  then,  we  behold  him  thoughtful, 
grave,  ascetic.  From  his  cradle  averse  to  flesh- 
meats  and  strong  drink  ;  abstemious  even  beyond 
the  genius  of  the  place,  and  almost  in  spite  of  the 
remonstrances  of  his  great-aunt,  who,  though  strict, 
was  not  rigid,  — water  was  his  habitual  drink,  and 
his  food  little  beyond  the  mast  and  beech-nuts  of 
his  favourite  groves.  It  is  a  medical  fact,  that  this 
kind  of  diet,  however  favourable  to  the  contem- 
plative powers  of  the  primitive  hermits,  &c.,  is  but 
ill  adapted  to  the  less  robust  minds  and  bodies 
of  a  later  generation.  Hypochondria  almost  con- 
stantly ensues.  It  was  so  in  the  case  of  the  young 
Liston.  He  was  subject  to  sights,  and  had  visions. 
Those  arid  beech-nuts,  distilled  by  a  complexion 
naturally  adust,  mounted  into  an  occiput  already 
prepared  to  kindle  by  long  seclusion  and  the  fer- 
vour of  strict  Calvinistic  notions.  In  the  glooms 
of  Charnwood,  he  was  assailed  by  illusions  similar 
in  kind  to  those  which  are  related  of  the  famous 
Anthony  of  Padua.  Wild  antic  faces  would  ever 
and  anon  protrude  themselves  upon  his  sensorium. 
Whether  he  shut  his  eyes,  or  kept  them  open,  the 
same  illusions  operated.  The  darker  and  more  pro- 
found were  his  cogitations,  the  droller  and  more 
whimsical  became  the  apparitions.  They  buzzed 
about  him  thick  as  flies,  flapping  at  him,  flouting 
him,  hooting  in  his  ear,  yet  with  such  comic  ap- 
pendages, that  what  at  first  was  his  bane  became 
at  length  his  solace  ;  and  he  desired  no  better  so- 
ciety than  that  of  his  merry  phantasmata.  We 
shall  presently  find  in  what  way  this  remarkable 
phenomenon  influenced  his  future  destiny. 

On  the  death  of  Mrs.  Sittingbourn,  we  find  him 
received  into  the  family  of  Mr.  Willoughby,  an 
eminent   Turkey   merchant,    resident    in   Birchin 


292  ELIANA. 

Lane,  London.  We  lose  a  little  while  here  the 
chain  of  his  histoiy, — by  what  inducements  this 
gentleman  was  determined  to  make  him  an  inmate 
of  his  house.  Probably  he  had  had  some  personal 
kindness  for  Mrs.  Sittingbourn  formerly  ;  but,  how- 
ever it  was,  the  young  man  was  here  treated  more 
like  a  son  than  a  clerk,  though  he  was  nominally 
but  the  latter.  Different  avocations,  the  change  of 
scene,  with  that  alternation  of  business  and  recrea- 
tion which  in  its  greatest  perfection  is  to  be  had 
only  in  London,  appear  to  have  weaned  him  in 
a  short  time  from  the  hypochondriacal  affections 
which  had  beset  him  at  Charnwood. 

In  the  three  years  which  followed  his  removal 
to  Birchin  Lane,  we  find  him  making  more  than 
one  voyage  to  the  Levant  as  chief  factor  for  Mr. 
Willoughby  at  the  Porte.  We  could  easily  fill 
our  biography  with  the  pleasant  passages  which 
we  have  heard  him  relate  as  having  happened  to 
him  at  Constantinople ;  such  as  his  having  been 
taken  up  on  suspicion  of  a  design  of  penetrating 
the  seraglio,  &c.  ;  but,  with  the  deepest  convince- 
ment  of  this  gentleman's  own  veracity,  we  think 
that  some  of  the  stories  are  of  that  whimsical,  and 
others  of  that  romantic  nature,  which,  however 
diverting,  would  be  out  of  place  in  a  narrative  of 
this  kind,  which  aims  not  only  at  strict  truth,  but 
at  avoiding  the  very  appearance  of  the  contrary. 

We  will  now  bring  him  over  the  seas  again,  and 
suppose  him  in  the  counting-house  in  Birchin  Lane, 
his  protector  satisfied  with  the  returns  of  his  fac- 
torage, and  all  going  on  so  smoothly,  that  we  may 
expect  to  find  Mr.  Liston  at  last  an  opulent  mer- 
chant upon  'Change,  as  it  is  called.  But  see  the 
turns  of  destiny  !  Upon  a  summer's  excursion  into 
Norfolk,  in  the  year  1801,  the  accidental  sight  of 


MEMOIR   OF  MR.   LISTOiY.  293 

pretty  Sally  Parker,  as  she  was  called  (then  in  the 
Norwich  company),  diverted  his  inclinations  at  once 
from  conimerce ;  and  he  became,  in  the  language 
of  commonplace  biography,  stage-struck.  Happy 
for  the  lovers  of  mirth  was  it  that  our  hero  took 
this  turn ;  he  might  else  have  been  to  this  hour 
that  unentertainmg  character,  a  plodding  London 
merchant. 

We  accordingly  find  him  shortly  after  making 
his  debut,  as  it  is  called,  upon  the  Norwich  boards, 
in  the  season  of  that  year,  being  then  in  the  twenty- 
second  year  of  his  age.  Having  a  natural  bent 
to  tragedy,  he  chose  the  part  of  Pyrrhus,  in  the 
"Distressed  Mother,"  to  Sally  Parker's  Hermione. 
We  find  him  afterwards  as  Barnwell,  Altamont, 
Chamont,  &c.  ;  but,  as  if  Nature  had  destined  him 
to  the  sock,  an  unavoidable  infirmity  absolutely 
discapacitated  him  for  tragedy.  His  person,  at 
this  latter  period  of  which  I  have  been  speaking, 
was  graceful,  and  even  commanding ;  his  counte- 
nance set  to  gravity :  he  had  the  power  of  arrest- 
ing the  attention  of  an  audience  at  first  sight 
almost  beyond  any  other  tragic  actor.  But  he  could 
not  hold  it.  To  understand  this  obstacle,  we  must 
go  back  a  few  years  to  those  appalling  reveries  at 
Charnwood.  Those  illusions,  which  had  vanished 
before  the  dissipation  of  a  less  recluse  life  and 
more  free  society,  now  in  his  solitary  tragic  studies, 
and  amid  the  intense  calls  upon  feeling  incident  to 
tragic  acting,  came  back  upon  him  with  tenfold 
vividness.  In  the  midst  of  some  most  pathetic 
passage  (the  parting  of  Jaffier  with  his  dying  friend, 
for  instance),  he  would  suddenly  be  surprised  with 
a  fit  of  violent  horse- laughter.  While  the  spec- 
tators were  all  sobbing  before  him  with  emotion, 
suddenly  one  of  those  grotesque  faces  would  peep 


294  ELI  AN  A. 

out  upon  him,  and  he  could  not  resist  the  impulse. 
A  timely  excuse  once  or  twice  served  his  purpose ; 
but  no  audiences  could  be  expected  to  bear  re- 
peatedly this  violation  of  the  continuity  of  feeling. 
He  describes  them  (the  illusions)  as  so  many  de- 
mons haunting  him,  and  paralyzing  every  effect. 
Even  now,  I  am  told,  he  cannot  recite  the  famous 
soliloquy  in  "  Hamlet,"  even  in  private,  without 
immoderate  bursts  of  laughter.  However,  what 
he  had  not  force  of  reason  sufficient  to  overcome,  he 
had  good  sense  enough  to  turn  into  emolument,  and 
determined  to  make  a  commodity  of  his  distemper. 
He  prudently  exchanged  the  buskin  for  the  sock, 
and  the  illusions  instantly  ceased  ;  or,  if  they  oc- 
curred for  a  short  season,  by  their  very  co-opera- 
tion added  a  zest  to  his  comic  vein, — some  of  his 
most  catching  faces  being  (as  he  expresses  it)  little 
more  than  transcripts  and  copies  of  those  extra- 
ordinary phantasmata. 

We  have  now  drawn  out  our  hero's  existence  to 
the  period  when  he  was  about  to  meet,  for  the  first 
time,  the  sympathies  of  a  London  audience.  The 
particulars  of  his  success  since  have  been  too  much 
before  our  eyes  to  render  a  circumstantial  detail  of 
them  expedient.  I  shall  only  mention,  that  Mr. 
Willoughby,  his  resentments  having  had  time  to 
subside,  is  at  present  one  of  the  fastest  friends  of 
his  old  renegado  factor;  and  that  Mr.  Liston's 
hopes  of  Miss  Parker  vanishing  along  with  his  un- 
successful suit  to  Melpomene,  in  the  autumn  of 
i8ii  he  married  his  present  lady,  by  whom  he 
has  been  blessed  with  one  son,  Philip,  and  two 
daughters,  Ann  and  Angustina. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY   OF   MR. 
MUNDEN. 

IN  A  LETTER  TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE   "LONDON 
MAGAZINE." 


]ARK'EE,  Mr.  Editor.  A  word  in  your 
ear.  Tliey  tell  me  you  are  going  to  put 
me  in  print, — in  print,  sir  ;  to  publish  my 
life.  What  is  my  life  to  you,  sir?  What 
is  it  to  you  whether  I  ever  lived  at  all?  My  life  is 
a  very  good  life,  sir.  I  am  insured  at  the  Pelican, 
sir.  I  am  threescore  years  and  six, — six;  mark 
me,  sir ;  but  I  can  play  Polonius,  which,  I  believe, 
few  of  your  corre — correspondents  can  do,  sir.  I 
suspect  tricks,  sir :  I  smell  a  rat ;  I  do,  I  do.  You 
would  cog  the  die  upon  us ;  you  would,  you  would, 
sir.  But  I  will  forestall  you,  sir.  You  would  be 
deriving  me  from  William  the  Conqueror,  with  a 
murrain  to  you.  It  is  no  such  thing,  sir.  The 
town  shall  know  better,  sir.  They  begin  to  smoke 
your  flams,  sir.  Mr.  Liston  may  be  born  where 
he  pleases,  sir;  but  I  will  not  be  born  at  Lup — 
Lupton  Magna  for  anybody's  pleasure,  sir.  My 
son  and  I  have  looked  over  the  great  map  of  Kent 
together,  and  we  can  find  no  such  place  as  you 
would  palm  upon  us,  sir ;  palm  upon  us,  I  say. 


296  ELI  AN  A. 

Neither  Magna  nor  Parva,  as  my  son  says,  and 
he  knows  Latin,  sir ;  Latin.  If  you  write  my 
life  true,  sir,  you  must  set  down  that  I,  Joseph 
Munden,  comedian,  came  into  the  world  upon 
Allhallows  Day,  Anno  Domini,  1759— 1759;  i''o 
sooner  nor  later,  sir ;  and  I  saw  the  first  light — 
the  first  light,  remember,  sir,  at  Stoke  Pogis — 
Stoke  Pogis,  comitafii  Bucks,  and  not  at  Lup — 
Lup  Magna,  which  I  believe  to  be  no  better  than 
moonshine — moonshine;  do  you  mark  me,  sir? 
I  wonder  you  can  put  such  flim-flams  upon  us, 
sir ;  I  do,  I  do.  It  does  not  become  you,  sir ; 
I  say  it, — I  say  it.  And  my  father  was  an 
honest  tradesman,  sir  :  he  dealt  in  malt  and  hops, 
sir ;  and  was  a  corporation-man,  sir ;  and  of  the 
Church  of  England,  sir,  and  no  Presbyterian ;  nor 
Ana — Anabaptist,  sir;  however  you  may  be  dis- 
posed to  make  honest  people  believe  to  the  con- 
traiy,  sir.  Your  bams  are  found  out,  sir.  The 
town  will  be  your  stale-puts  no  longer,  sir;  and 
you  must  not  send  us  jolly  fellows,  sir, — we  that  are 
comedians,  sir, — you  must  not  send  us  into  groves 
and  char — charnwoods  a  moping,  sir.  Neither 
charns,  nor  charnel-houses,  sii".  It  is  not  our  con- 
stitution, sir :  I  tell  it  you — I  tell  it  you.  I  was  a 
droll  dog  from  my  cradle.  I  came  into  the  world 
tittering,  and  the  midwife  tittered,  and  the  gossips 
spilt  their  caudle  with  tittering ;  and,  when  I  was 
brought  to  the  font,  the  parson  could  not  christen 
me  for  tittering.  So  I  was  never  more  than  half 
baptized.  And,  when  I  was  little  Joey,  I  made 
'em  all  titter ;  there  was  not  a  melancholy  face  to 
be  seen  in  Pogis.  Pure  nature,  sir.  I  was  born  a 
comedian.  Old  Screwup,  the  undertaker,  could 
tell  you,  sir,  if  he  were  living.  Why,  I  was  obliged 
to  be  locked  up  every  time  there  was  to  be  a  fu- 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  MR.  MUNDEN.    297 

neral  at  Pogis.  I  was — I  was,  sir.  I  used  to  gri- 
mace at  the  mutes,  as  he  called  it,  and  put  'em  out 
with  my  mops  and  my  mows,  till  they  couldn't 
stand  at  a  door  for  me.  And  when  I  was  locked 
up,  with  nothing  but  a  cat  in  my  company,  I  fol- 
lowed my  bent  with  trying  to  make  her  laugh; 
and  sometimes  she  would,  and  sometimes  she 
would  not.  And  my  schoolmaster  could  make 
nothing  of  me :  I  had  only  to  thrust  my  tongue 
in  my  cheek — in  my  cheek,  sir,  and  the  rod 
dropped  from  his  fingers ;  and  so  my  education 
was  limited,  sir.  And  I  grew  up  a  young  fellow, 
and  it  was  thought  convenient  to  enter  me  upon 
some  course  of  life  that  should  make  me  serious ; 
but  it  wouldn't  do,  sir.  And  I  was  articled  to  a 
dry-salter.  My  father  gave  forty  pounds  premium 
with  me,  sir.  I  can  show  the  indent — dent — 
dentures,  sir.  But  I  was  born  to  be  a  comedian, 
sir :  so  I  ran  away,  and  listed  with  the  players,  sir : 
and  1  topt  my  parts  at  Amersham  and  Gerrard's 
Cross,  and  played  my  own  father  to  his  face,  in  his 
own  town  of  Pogis,  in  the  part  of  Gripe,  when  I 
was  not  full  seventeen  years  of  age ;  and  he  did 
not  know  me  again,  but  he  knew  me  afterwards ; 
and  then  he  laughed,  and  I  laughed,  and,  what  is 
better,  the  dry-salter  laughed,  and  gave  me  up  my 
articles  for  the  joke's  sake :  so  that  I  came  into 
court  afterwards  with  clean  hands — with  clean  hands 
— do  you  see,  sir? 

[Here  the  manuscript  becomes  illegible  for  two 
or  three  sheets  onwards,  which  we  presume  to  be 
occasioned  by  the  absence  of  Mr.  Munden,  jun.^ 
A-ho  clearly  transcribed  it  for  the  press  thus  far. 
The  rest  (with  the  exception  of  the  concluding 
paragraph,  which  is  seemingly  resumed  in  the  first 


31)8  ELI  AN  A. 

handwriting)  appears  to  contain  a  confused  account 
of  some  lawsuit,  in  which  the  elder  Munden  was 
engaged  ;  with  a  circumstantial  history  of  the  pro- 
ceedings of  a  case  of  breach  of  promise  of  marriage, 
made  to  or  by  (we  cannot  pick  out  which)  Jemima 
Munden,  spinster ;  probably  the  comedian's  cousin, 
for  it  does  not  appear  he  had  any  sister  ;  with  a  few 
dates,  rather  better  preserved,  of  this  great  actor's 
engagements, —as  "Cheltenham  (spelt  Cheltnam), 
1776;"  "Bath,  1779;"  "London,  1789;"  to- 
gether with  stage  anecdotes  of  Messrs.  Edwin,  Wil- 
son, Lee,  Lewis,  &c.  ;  over  which  we  have  strained 
our  eyes  to  no  purpose,  in  the  hope  of  presenting 
something  amusing  to  the  public.  Towards  the 
end,  the  manuscript  brightens  up  a  little,  as  we 
said,  and  concludes  in  the  following  manner :] 

stood  before  them  for  six  and  thirty  years 

[we  suspect  that  Mr.  Munden  is  here  speaking  of 
his  final  leave-taking  of  the  stage],  and  to  be  dis- 
missed at  last.  But  I  was  heart-whole  to  the  last, 
sir.  What  though  a  few  drops  did  course  them- 
selves down  the  old  veteran's  cheeks  :  who  could 
help  it,  sir  ?  I  was  a  giant  that  night,  sir ;  and 
could  have  played  fifty  parts,  each  as  arduous  as 
Dozy.  My  faculties  were  never  better,  sir.  But 
I  was  to  be  laid  upon  the  shelf.  It  did  not  suit 
the  public  to  laugh  with  their  old  servant  any  longer, 
sir.  [Here  some  moisture  has  blotted  a  sentence 
or  two.]  But  I  can  play  Polonius  still,  sir ;  I  can, 
I  can. 

Your  servant,  sir, 

Joseph  Munden. 


THE    ILLUSTRIOUS    DEFUNCT.' 

Nought  but  a  blank  remains,  a  dead  void  space, 
A  step  of  life  that  promised  such  a  race. — Dryden. 


APOLEON  has  now  sent  us  back  from 
the  grave  sufficient  echoes  of  his  Hving 
renown :  the  twilight  of  posthumous 
fame  has  Hngered  long  enough  over  the 
spot  where  the  sun  of  his  glory  set ;  and  his  name 
must  at  length  repose  in  the  silence,  if  not  in  the 
darkness  of  night.  In  this  busy  and  evanescent 
scene,  other  spirits  of  the  age  are  rapidly  snatched 
away,  claiming  our  undivided  sympathies  and  re- 
grets, until  in  turn  they  yield  to  some  newer  and 
more  absorbing  grief  Another  name  is  now  added 
to  the  list  of  the  mighty  departed, — a  name  whose 
influence  upon  the  hopes  and  fears,  the  fates  and 
fortunes,  of  our  countrymen,  has  rivalled,  and  per- 

'  Since  writing  this  article,  we  have  been  informed  that 
theobject  of  our  funeral  oration  is  not  definitively  dead,  but 
only  moribund.  So  much  the  better :  we  shall  have  an 
opportunity  of  granting  the  request  made  to  Walter  by  one  ■ 
of  the  children  in  the  wood,  and  "  kill  him  two  times."  The 
Abbe  de  Vertot  having  a  siege  to  write,  and  not  receiving 
the  materials  in  time,  composed  the  whole  from  his  inven- 
tion. Shortly  after  its  completion,  the  expected  documents 
arrived,  when  he  threw  them  aside,  exclaiming,  "You  are 
of  no  use  to  me  now :  I  have  carried  the  town." 


30O  ELI  AN  A. 

haps  eclipsed,  that  of  the  defunct  "  child  and  cham- 
pion of  Jacobinism,"  while  it  is  associated  with 
all  the  sanctions  of  legitimate  government,  all  the 
sacred  authorities  of  social  order  and  our  most  holy 
religion.  We  speak  of  one,  indeed,  under  whose 
warrant  heavy  and  incessant  contributions  were 
imposed  upon  our  fellow-citizens,  but  who  exacted 
nothing  without  the  signet  and  the  sign-manual  of 
most  devout  Chancellors  of  the  Exchequer.  Not 
to  dally  longer  with  the  sympathies  of  our  readers, 
we  think  it  right  to  premonish  them  that  we  are 
composing  an  epicedium  upon  no  less  distinguished 
a  personage  than  the  Lottery,  whose  last  breath, 
after  many  penultimate  puffs,  has  been  sobbed  forth 
by  sorrowing  contractors,  as  if  the  world  itself 
were  about  to  be  converted  into  a  blank.  There  is 
a  fashion  of  eulog)',  as  well  as  of  vituperation ;  and, 
thougli  the  Lottery  stood  for  some  time  in  the  latter 
predicament,  we  hesitate  not  to  assert  that  nmltis 
ilk  bonis  flebilis  occidit.  Never  have  we  joined  in 
the  senseless  clamour  which  condemned  the  only 
tax  whereto  we  became  voluntary  contributors, — 
the  only  resource  which  gave  the  stimulus  without 
the  danger  or  infatuation  of  gambling  ;  the  only 
alembic  which  in  these  plodding  days  sublimized 
our  imaginations,  and  filled  them  with  more  deli- 
cious dreams  than  ever  flitted  athwart  the  senso- 
rium  of  Alnaschar. 

Never  can  the  writer  forget,  when,  as  a  child,  he 
was  hoisted  upon  a  servant's  shoulder  in  Guildhall, 
and  looked  down  upon  the  installed  and  solemn 
pomp  of  the  then  drawing  Lottery.  The  two 
awful  cabinets  of  iron,  upon  whose  massy  and  mys- 
terious portals  the  royal  initials  were  gorgeously 
emblazoned,  as  if,  after  having  deposited  the  un- 
fulfilled prophecies  within,  the  king  himself  had 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT.  301 

turned  the  lock,  and  still  retained  the  key  in  his 
pocket ;  the  bluecoat  hoy,  with  his  naked  arm, 
lirst  converting  the  invisible  wheel,  and  then  diving 
into  the  dark  recess  for  a  ticket ;  the  grave  and 
reverend  faces  of  the  commissioners  eyeing  the 
announced  number  ;  the  scribes  below  calmly  com- 
mitting it  to  their  huge  books  ;  the  anxious  counte- 
nances of  the  surrounding  populace  ;  while  the 
giant  figures  of  Gog  and  Magog,  like  presiding 
deities,  looked  down  with  a  grim  silence  upon  the 
whole  proceeding, — constituted  altogether  a  scene, 
which,  combined  with  the  sudden  M'ealth  supjDOsed 
to  be  lavished  from  those  inscrutable  wheels,  was 
well  calculated  to  impress  the  imagination  of  a  boy 
with  reverence  and  amazement.  Jupiter,  seated 
between  the  two  fatal  urns  of  good  and  evil,  the 
blind  goddess  with  her  cornucopia,  the  Parcae 
wielding  the  distaff,  the  thread  of  life,  and  the  ab- 
horred shears,  seemed  but  dim  and  shadowy  ab- 
stractions of  mythology,  when  I  had  gazed  upon 
an  assemblage  exercising,  as  I  dreamt,  a  not  less 
eventful  power,  and  all  presented  to  me  in  pal- 
pable and  living  operation.  Reason  and  experi- 
ence, ever  at  their  old  spiteful  work  of  catching 
and  destroying  the  bubbles  which  youth  delighted 
to  follow,  have  indeed  dissipated  much  of  this  illu- 
sion :  but  my  mind  so  far  retained  the  influence  of 
that  early  impression,  that  I  have  ever  since  con- 
tinued to  deposit  my  humble  offerings  at  its  shrine, 
whenever  the  ministers  of  the  Lottery  went  forth 
with  type  and  trumpet  to  announce  its  periodical 
dispensations  ;  and  though  nothing  has  been  doled 
out  to  me  from  its  undiscerning  coffei^s  but  blanks, 
or  those  more  vexatious  tantalizers  of  the  spirit 
denominated  small  prizes,  yet  do  I  hold  myself 
largely  indebted  to  this  most  generous  diffuser  of 


302  ELIANA. 

universal  happiness.  Ingrates  that  we  are  !  are 
we  to  be  thankful  for  no  benefits  that  are  not  pal- 
pable to  sense,  to  recognize  no  favours  that  are 
not  of  marketable  value,  to  acknowledge  no  wealth 
unless  it  can  be  counted  with  the  five  fingers?  If 
we  admit  the  mind  to  be  the  sole  depository  of 
genuine  joy,  where  is  the  bosom  that  has  not  been 
elevated  into  a  temporary  Elysium  by  the  magic  of 
the  Lottery?  Which  of  us  has  not  converted  his 
ticket,  or  even  his  sixteenth  share  of  one,  into  a 
nest-egg  of  Hope,  upon  which  he  has  sate  brood- 
ing in  the  secret  roosting-places  of  his  heart,  and 
hatched  it  into  a  thousand  fantastical  apparitions  ? 
What  a  startling  revelation  of  the  passions  if  all 
the  aspirations  engendered  by  the  Lottery  could 
be  made  manifest  !  Many  an  impecuniary  epicure 
has  gloated  over  his  locked-up  warrant  for  future 
wealth,  as  a  means  of  realizing  the  dream  of  his 
namesake  in  the   "  Alchemist ;" — 

My  meat  shall  all  come  in  in  Indian  shells — 

Dishes  of  agate  set  in  gold,  and  studded 

With  emeralds,  sapphires,  hyacinths,  and  rubies ; 

The  tongues  of  carps,  dormice,  and  camels'  heels. 

Boiled  i'  the  spirit  of  Sol,  and  dissolved  in  pearl 

(Apicius'  diet  'gainst  the  epilepsy). 

And  I  will  eat  these  broths  with  spoons  of  amber. 

Headed  with  diamant  and  carbuncle. 

My  footboy  shall  eat  pheasants,  calvered  salmons, 

Knots,  godwits,  lampreys:  I  myself  will  have 

The  beards  of  barbels  served,  instead  of  salads  ; 

Oiled  mushrooms,  and  the  swelling  unctuous  paps 

Of  a  fat  pregnant  sow,  newly  cut  off, 

Dressed  with  an  exquisite  and  poignant  sauce. 

For  which  I'll  say  unto  my  cook,  "  There's  gold  : 

Go  forth,  and  be  a  knight  ! " 

Many  a  doting  lover  has  kissed  the  scrap  of 
paper  whose  promissory  shower  of  gold  was  to 
give  up  to  him  his  otherwise  unattainable  Danae  ; 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT.  303 

Nimrods  have  transformed  the  same  narrow  symbol 
into  a  saddle,  by  which  they  have  been  enabled 
to  bestride  the  backs  of  peerless  hunters ;  while 
nymphs  have  metamorphosed  its  Protean  form 
into — 

Rings,  gauds,  conceits, 
Knacks,  trifles,  nosegays,  sweetmeats," 

and  all  the  braveries  of  dress,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
obsequious  husband,  the  two-footmann'd  carriage, 
and  the  opera-box.  By  the  simple  charm  of  this 
numbered  and  printed  rag,  gamesters  have,  for  a 
time  at  least,  recovered  their  losses  ;  spendthrifts 
have  cleared  off  mortgages  from  their  estates  ;  the 
imprisoned  debtor  has  leapt  over  his  lofty  boundary 
of  circumscription  and  restraint,  and  revelled  in  all 
the  joys  of  liberty  and  fortune  ;  the  cottage-walls 
have  swelled  out  into  more  goodly  proportion  than 
those  of  Baucis  and  Philemon  ;  poverty  has  tasted 
the  luxuries  of  competence ;  labour  has  lolled  at 
ease  in  a  perpetual  arm-chair  of  idleness  ;  sickness 
has  been  bribed  into  banishment  ;  life  has  been  in- 
vested with  new  charms ;  and  death  deprived  of 
its  former  terrors.  Nor  have  the  affections  been 
less  gratified  than  the  wants,  appetites,  and  am- 
bitions of  mankind.  By  the  conjurations  of  the 
same  potent  spell,  kindred  have  lavished  antici- 
pated benefits  upon  one  another,  and  charity  upon 
all.  Let  it  be  termed  a  delusion,— a  fool's  paradise 
is  better  than  the  wise  man's  Tartarus ;  be  it 
branded  as  an  ignis-fatuus, — it  was  at  least  a  bene- 
volent one,  which,  instead  of  beguiling  its  followers 
into  swamps,  caverns,  and  pitfalls,  allured  them 
on  with  all  the  blandishments  of  enchantment  to 
a  garden  of  Eden, — an  ever-blooming  Elysium  of 
delight.     True,   the   pleasures   it  bestowed   were 


evanescent :  but  which  of  our  joys  are  permanent? 
and  who  so  inexperienced  as  not  to  know  that  an- 
ticipation is  alwaj's  of  higher  rehsh  than  reaHty, 
which  strikes  a  balance  both  in  our  sufferings  and 
enjoyments?  "  The  fear  of  ill  exceeds  the  ill  we 
fear;"  and  fruition,  in  the  same  proportion,  in- 
variably falls  short  of  hope.  "Men  are  but  children 
of  a  larger  gi-owth,"  who  may  amuse  themselves 
for  a  long  time  in  gazing  at  the  reflection  of  the 
moon  in  the  water  ;  but,  if  they  jump  in  to  grasp 
it,  they  may  grope  for  ever,  and  only  get  the  far- 
ther from  their  object.  He  is  the  wisest  who 
keeps  feeding  upon  the  future,  and  refrains  as  long 
as  possible  from  undeceiving  himself  by  converting 
his  pleasant  speculations  into  disagreeable  cer- 
tainties. 

The  true  mental  epicure  always  purchased  his 
ticket  early,  and  postponed  inquiry  into  its  fate  to 
the  last  possible  moment,  during  the  whole  of 
which  intervening  period  he  had  an  imaginary 
twenty  thousand  locked  up  in  his  desk ;  and  was 
not  this  well  worth  all  the  money  ?  Who  would 
scruple  to  give  twenty  pounds  interest  for  even  the 
ideal  enjoyment  of  as  many  thousands  during  two 
or  three  months?  Crede  quod  kabes,  et  hales ; 
and  the  usufruct  of  such  a  capital  is  surely  not  dear 
at  such  a  price.  Some  years  ago,  a  gentleman  in 
passing  along  Cheapside  saw  the  figures  1,069,  of 
which  number  he  was  the  sole  proprietor,  flaming 
on  the  window  of  a  lotteiy  office  as  a  capital  prize. 
Somewhat  flurried  by  this  discovery,  not  less  wel- 
come than  unexpected,  he  resolved  to  walk  round 
St.  Paul's  that  he  might  consider  in  what  way  to 
communicate  the  happy  tidings  to  his  wife  and 
family ;  but,  upon  re-passing  the  shop,  he  observed 
that  the  number  was  altered  to  10,069,  ^"d,  upon 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT.  305 

inquiry,  had  the  mortification  to  learn  that  his 
ticket  was  a  blank,  and  had  only  been  stuck  up  in 
the  window  by  a  mistake  of  the  clerk.  This  effectu- 
ally calmed  his  agitation ;  but  he  always  speaks 
of  himself  as  having  once  possessed  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  maintains  that  his  ten-minutes' 
walk  round  St.  Paul's  was  worth  ten  times  the 
purchase-money  of  the  ticket.  A  prize  thus  ob- 
tained has,  moreover,  this  special  advantage,— it  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  fate ;  it  cannot  be  squandered  ; 
bankruptcy  cannot  lay  siege  to  it ;  friends  cannot 
pull  it  down,  nor  enemies  blow  it  up  ;  it  bears  a 
charmed  life,  and  none  of  woman  born  can  break 
its  integrity,  even  by  the  dissipation,  of  a  single 
fraction.  Show  me  the  property  in  these  perilous 
times,  that  is  equally  compact  and  impregnable. 
We  can  no  longer  become  enriched  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour;  we  can  no  longer  succeed  in  such 
splendid  failures  :  all  our  chances  of  making  such 
a  miss  have  vanished  with  the  last  of  the  Lotteries. 

Life  will  now  become  a  flat,  prosaic  routine  of 
matter-of-fact ;  and  sleep  itself,  erst  so  prolific  of 
numerical  configurations  and  mysterious  stimulants 
to  lottery  adventure,  will  be  disfurnished  of  its 
figures  and  figments.  People  will  cease  to  harp 
upon  the  one  lucky  number  suggested  in  a  dream, 
and  which  forms  the  exception,  while  they_  are 
scrupulously  silent  upon  the  ten  thousand  falsified 
dreams  which  constitute  the  rule.  Morpheus  will 
Stifle  Cocker  with  a  handful  of  poppies,  and  our 
pillows  will  be  no  longer  haunted  by  the  book  of 
numbers. 

And  who,  too,  shall  maintain  the  art  and  mys- 
tery of  puffing,  in  all  its  pristine  glory,  when  the 
lottery  professors  shall  have  abandoned  its  cultiva 
tion  ?    They  were  the  first,  as  they  will  assuredly 

II.  X 


3o6  ELI  AN  A. 

be  the  last,  who  fully  developed  the  resources  of 
that  ingenious  art ;  who  cajoled  and  decoyed  the 
most  suspicious  and  wary  reader  into  a  perusal  of 
their  advertisements  by  devices  of  endless  variety 
and  cunning ;  who  baited  their  lurking  schemes 
with  midnight  murders,  ghost-stories,  crim-cons, 
bon-mots,  balloons,  dreadful  catastrophes,  and 
every  diversity  of  joy  and  sorrow,  to  catch  news- 
paper gudgeons.  Ought  not  such  talents  to  be 
encouraged  ?  Verily  the  abolitionists  have  much 
to  answer  for ! 

And  now,  having  established  the  felicity  of  all 
those  who  gained  imaginary  prizes,  let  us  pro- 
ceed to  show  that  the  equally  numerous  class  who 
were  presented  with  real  blanks  have  not  less 
reason  to  consider  themselves  happy.  Most  of  us 
have  cause  to  be  thankful  for  that  which  is  be- 
stowed ;  but  we  have  all,  probably,  reason  to  be 
still  more  grateful  for  that  which  is  withheld,  and 
more  especially  for  our  being  denied  the  sudden 
possession  of  riches.  In  the  Litany,  indeed,  we 
call  upon  the  Lord  to  deliver  us  "in  all  time  of 
our  wealth ;"  but  how  few  of  us  are  sincere  in  de- 
precating such  a  calamity  !  Massinger's  Luke, 
and  Ben  Jonson's  Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  and  Pope's 
Sir  Balaam,  and  our  own  daily  observation,  might 
convince  us  that  the  Devil  ' '  now  tempts  by  making 
rich,  not  making  poor."  We  may  read  in  the 
"  Guardian "  a  circumstantial  account  of  a  man 
who  was  utterly  ruined  by  gaining  a  capital  prize ; 
we  may  recollect  what  Dr.  Johnson  said  to  Garrick, 
when  the  latter  was  making  a  display  of  his  wealth 
at  Hampton  Court,—"  Ah,  David,  David  !  these 
are  the  things  that  make  a  death-bed  terrible;"  we 
may  recall  the  Scripture  declaration,  as  to  the 
difficulty  a  rich  man  finds  in  entering  into   the 


THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT.  307 

kingdom  of  Heaven  ;  and,  combining  all  these  de 
nunciations  against  opulence,  let  us  heartily  con- 
gratulate one  another  upon  our  lucky  escape  from 
the  calamity  of  a  twenty  or  thirty  thousand  pound 
prize !  The  fox  in  the  fable,  who  accused  the  un- 
attainable grapes  of  sourness,  was  more  of  a  phi- 
losopher than  we  are  generally  willing  to  allow. 
He  was  an  adept  in  that  species  of  moral  alchemy 
which  turns  everything  to  gold,  and  converts  dis- 
appointment itself  into  a  ground  of  resignation  and 
content.  Such  we  have  shown  to  be  the  great 
lesson  inculcated  by  the  Lottery,  when  rightly  con- 
templated ;  and,  if  we  might  parody  M.  de  Cha- 
teaubriand's jingling  expression,  —  "■'  le  Roiest  mort: 
viveleRoiV — we  should  be  tempted  to  exclaim, 
•'  The  Lottery  is  no  more  :  long  live  the  Lottery ! " 


THE   ASS. 


R.  COLLIER,  in  his  "Poetical  De- 
cameron "  (Third  Conversation),  notices 
a  tract  printed  in  1 595,  with  the  author's 

. - .  initials  only,  A.  B.,  entitled  "  The  No- 

blenesse  of  the  Asse ;  a  work  rare,  learned,  and 
excellent."  He  has  selected  the  following  pretty 
passage  from  it :  "  He  (the  ass)  refuseth  no  burden : 
he  goes  whither  he  is  sent,  without  any  contra- 
diction. He  lifts  not  his  foote  against  any  one ; 
he  bytes  not ;  he  is  no  fugitive,  nor  maUcious 
affected.  He  doth  all  things  in  good  sort,  and  to 
his  liking  that  hath  cause  to  employ  him.  If 
strokes  be  given  him,  he  cares  not  for  them  ;  and, 
as  our  modern  poet  singeth, — 

Thou  wouldst  (perhaps)  he  should  become  thy  foe, 
Ariel  to  that  end  dost  beat  him  many  times : 
He  cares  not  for  himselfe,  much  less  thy  blow. 

Certainly  Nature,  foreseeing  the  cruel  usage 
which  this  useful  servant  to  man  should  receive  at 
man's  hand,  did  prudently  in  furnishing  him  with 
a  tegument  impervious  to  ordinary  stripes.  The 
malice  of  a  child  or  a  weak  hand  can  make  feeble 
impressions  on  him.     His  back  offers  no  mark  to 


a  puny  foeman.  To  a  common  whip  or  switch  his 
hide  presents  an  absolute  insensibility.  You  might 
as  well  pretend  to  scourge  a  schoolboy  with  a  tough 
pair  of  leather  breeches  on.  His  jerkin  is  well 
fortified;  and  therefore  the  costermongers,  "be- 
tween the  years  1790  and  1 800,"  did  more  politicly 
than  piously  in  lifting  up  a  part  of  his  upper  gar- 
ment. I  well  remember  that  beastly  and  bloody 
"custom.  I  have  often  longed  to  see  one  of  those 
refiners  in  discipline  himself  at  the  cart's  tail,  with 
just  such  a  convenient  spot  laid  bare  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  whipster.  But,  since  Nature  has 
resumed  her  rights,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  this 
patient  creature  does  not  suffer  to  extremities  ;  and 
that,  to  the  savages  who  still  belabour  his  poor 
carcase  with  their  blows  (considering  the  sort  of 
anvil  they  are  laid  upon),  he  might  in  some  sort, 
if  he  could  speak,  exclaim  with  the  philosopher, 
"  Lay  on:  you  beat  but  upon  the  case  of  Anaxar- 
chus." 

Contemplating  this  natural  safeguard,  this  forti- 
fied exterior,  it  is  with  pain  I  view  the  sleek,  fop- 
pish, combed,  and  curried  person  of  this  animal  as 
he  is  disnaturalized  at  watering-places,  &c.,  vi'here 
they  aftect  to  make  a  palfry  of  him.  Fie  on  all 
such  sophistications  !  It  will  never  do,  master 
groom.  Something  of  his  honest,  shaggy  exterior 
will  still  peep  up  in  spite  of  you, — his  good,  rough, 
native,  pine-apple  coating.  You  cannot  "  refine  a 
scorpion  into  a  fish,  though  you  rinse  it  and  scour 
it  with  ever  so  cleanly  cookeiy.^" 

The  modern  poet  quoted  by  A.  B.  proceeds  to 
celebrate  a  virtue  for  which  no  one  to  this  day  had 
been  aware  that  the  ass  was  remarkable  : — 

'  Milton,_/V£i»«  memory. 


3to  ELI  ANA. 

One  other  gift  this  beast  hath  as  his  owne, 
Wherewith  the  rest  could  not  be  furnished  : 
On  man  himself  the  same  was  not  bestowne  ! 
To  wit,  on  him  is  ne'er  engendered 
The  hateful  vermine  that  doth  teare  the  skin, 
And  to  the  bode  [body]  doth  make  his  passage  in. 

And  truly,  when  one  thinks  on  the  suit  of  im 
penetrable  armour  with  which  Nature  (like  Vulcan 
to  another  Achilles)  has  provided  him,  these  sub- 
tile enemies  to  our  repose  would  have  shown  some 
dexterity  in  getting  into  his  quarters.  As  the  bogs 
of  Ireland  by  tradition  expel  toads  and  reptiles,  he 
may  well  defy  these  small  deer  in  his  fastnesses. 
It  seems  the  latter  had  not  arrived  at  the  exquisite 
policy  adopted  by  the  human  vermin  "between 
1790  and  1800." 

But  the  most  singular  and  delightful  gift  of  the 
ass,  according  to  the  writer  of  this  pamphlet,  is  his 
voice,  the  "  goodly,  sweet,  and  continual  brayings  " 
of  which,  "  whereof  they  forme  a  melodious  and 
proportionable  kinde  of  musicke,"  seem  to  have 
affected  him  with  no  ordinary  pleasure.  "Nor 
thinke  I,"  he  adds,  "that  any  of  our  immoderate 
musitians  can  deny  but  that  their  song  is  full  of 
exceeding  pleasure  to  be  heard ;  because  therein  is 
to  be  discerned  both  concord,  discord,  singing  in 
the  meane,  the  beginning  to  sing  in  large  com- 
passe,  then  following  into  rise  and  fall,  the  halfe- 
note,  whole  note,  musicke  of  five  voices,  firme 
singing  by  four  voices,  three  together,  or  one  voice 
and  a  halfe.  Then  their  variable  contrarieties 
amongst  them,  when  one  delivers  forth  a  long 
tenor  or  a  short,  the  pausing  for  time,  breathing  in 
measure,  breaking  the  minim  or  very  least  moment 
of  time.  Last  of  all,  to  heare  the  musicke  of  five 
or  six  voices  chaunged  to  so  many  of  asses  is 


THE  ASS.  311 

amongst  them  to  heaie  a  song  of  world  without 
end." 

There  is  no  accounting  for  ears,  or  for  that 
laudable  enthusiasm  with  which  an  author  is 
tempted  to  invest  a  favourite  subject  with  the 
most  incompatible  perfections  :  I  should  other- 
wise, for  my  own  taste,  have  been  inclined  rather 
to  have  given  a  place  to  these  extraordinary  mu- 
sicians at  that  banquet  of  nothing-less-than-sweet- 
sounds,  imagined  by  old  Jeremy  Collier  (Essays, 
1698,  part  ii.  on  Music),  where,  after  describing 
the  inspiriting  effects  of  martial  music  in  a  battle, 
he  hazards  an  ingenious  conjecture,  whether  a  sort 
of  anti-music  might  not  be  invented,  which  should 
have  quite  the  contrary  effect  of  "  sinking  the 
spirits,  shaking  the  nerves,  curdling  the  blood, 
and  inspiring  despair  and  cowardice  and  consterna- 
tion. 'Tis  probable,"  he  says,  "the  roaring  of 
lions,  the  warbling  of  cats  and  screech-owls,  toge- 
ther with  a  mixture  of  the  howling  of  dogs,  judi- 
ciously imitated  and  compounded,  might  go  a  great 
way  in  this  invention. "  The  dose,  we  confess,  is 
pretty  potent,  and  skilfully  enough  prepared.  But 
what  shall  we  say  to  the  Ass  of  Silenus,  who,  if 
we  may  trust  to  classic  lore,  by  his  own  proper 
sounds,  without  thanks  to  cat  or  screech-owl,  dis- 
mayed and  put  to  rout  a  whole  army  of  giants  ? 
Here  was  anti-imisic  with  a  vengeance  ;  a  whole 
Pan-Dis-Harmonico7i  in  a  single  lungs  of  leather  ! 

But  I  keep  you  trifling  too  long  on  this  asinine 
subject.  I  have  already  passed  the  Pons  Asinoruvi, 
and  will  desist,  remembering  the  old  pedantic  pun 
of  Jem  Boyer,  my  schoolmaster, — 

"Ass  in  pmsenti  seldom  makes  a  WISE  MAN  in 
futuro." 


IN    RE    SQUIRRELS. 


jHAT  is  gone  with  the  cages  with  the 
climbing  squirrel,  and  bells  to  them, 
which  were  formerly  the  indispensable 
appendage  to  the  outside  of  a  tinman's 
shop,  and  were,  in  fact,  the  only  live  signs  ?  One, 
we  believe,  still  hangs  out  on  Holborn  ;  but  they 
are  fast  vanishing  with  the  good  old  modes  of  our 
ancestors.  They  seem  to  have  been  superseded  by 
that  still  more  ingenious  refinement  of  modern 
humanity,— the  tread-mill ;  in  which  humaji  squir- 
rels still  perform  a  similar  round  of  ceaseless,  im- 
progressive  clambering,  which  must  be  auts  to  them. 
We  almost  doubt  the  fact  of  the  teeth  of  this 
creature  being  so  purely  orange-coloured  as  Mr. 
Urban's  correspondent  gives  out.  One  of  our  old 
poets — and  they  were  pretty  sharp  observers  of 
Nature — describes  them  as  brown.  But  perhaps 
the  naturalist  referred  to  meant  "of  the  colour  of 
a  Maltese  orange," '  which  is  rather  more  obfus- 


Faithful  Shepherdess."     The  satyr 


'  Fletcher  in    the 
offers  to  Clorin — 


Grapes  whose  lusty  blood 
Is  the  learned  poet's  good, — 
Sweeter  yet  did  never  crown 
The  head  of  Bacchus  ;  nuts  more  brown 
I'han  the  squirrels'  teeth  that  crack  them. 


IN  RE  SQUIRRELS.  313 

cated  than  your  fruit  of  Seville  or  St.  Michael's, 
and  may  help  to  reconcile  the  difference.  We 
cannot  speak  from  observation ;  but  we  remember 
at  school  getting  our  fingers  into  the  orangery  of 
one  of  these  little  gentry  (not  having  a  due  caution 
of  the  traps  set  there),  and  the  result  proved  sourer 
than  lemons.  The  author  of  the  "Task  "  sonie- 
where  speaks  of  their  anger  as  being  ' '  insignifi- 
cantly fierce  ;"  but  we  found  the  demonstration  of 
it  on  this  occasion  quite  as  significant  as  we  de- 
sired, and  have  not  been  disposed  since  to  look 
any  of  these  "  gift  horses"  in  the  mouth.  Maiden 
aunts  keep  these  "small  deer,"  as  they  do  parrots, 
to  bite  people's  fingers,  on  purpose  to  give  them 
good  advice  "not  to  adventure  so  near  the  cage 
another  time."  As  for  their  "  six  quavers  divided 
into  three  quavers  and  a  dotted  crotchet, "  I  sup- 
pose they  may  go  into  Jeremy  Bentham's  next 
budget  of  fallacies,  along  with  the  "melodious 
and  proportionable  kinde  of  musicke"  recorded, 
in  your  last  number,  of  a  highly-gifted  animal. 


ESTIMATE    OF   DE   FOE'S   SECON- 
DARY  NOVELS. 

T  has  happened  not  seldom    that   one 
work   of  some  author  has  so  transcen- 
dently  surpassed  in  execution  the  rest  of 
^  his  compositions,   that   the   world  has 

agreed  to  pass  a  sentence  of  dismissal  upon  the 
latter,  and  to  consign  them  to  total  neglect  and 
oblivion.  It  has  done  wisely  in  this  not  to  suffer 
the  contemplation  of  excellences  of  a  lower  stand- 
ard to  abate  or  stand  in  the  way  of  the  pleasure  it 
has  agreed  to  receive  from  the  masterpiece. 

Again :  it  has  happened,  that  from  no  inferior 
merit  of  execution  in  the  rest,  but  from  superior 
good  fortune  in  the  choice  of  its  subject,  some 
single  work  shall  have  been  suffered  to  eclipse  and 
cast  into  shade  the  deserts  of  its  less  fortunate 
brethren.  This  has  been  done  with  more  or  less 
injustice  in  the  case  of  the  popular  allegory  of 
Bunyan,  in  which  the  beautiful  and  scriptural  image 
of  a  pilgrim  or  wayfarer  (we  are  all  such  upon 
earth),  addressing  itself  intelligibly  and  feelingly 
to  the  bosoms  of  all,  has  silenced,  and  made  almost 
to  be  forgotten,  the  more  awful  and  scarcely  less 
tender  beauties  of  the  "Holy  War  made  by  Shaddai 
upon  Diabolus,"  of  the  same  author, — a  romance 


DE  FOE'S  SECONDARY  NOVELS.         315 

less  happy  in  its  subject,  but  surely  well  worthy 
of  a  secondary  immortality.  But  in  no  instance  has 
this  excluding  partiality  been  exerted  with  more 
unfairness  than  against  what  may  be  termed  the 
secondaiy  novels  or  romances  of  Defoe. 

While  all  ages  and  descriptions  of  people  hang 
delighted  over  the  "Adventures  of  Robinson 
Crusoe,"  and  shall  continue  to  do  so,  we  trust, 
while  the  world  lasts,  how  few  comparatively  will 
bear  to  be  told  that  there  exist  other  fictitious  nar- 
ratives by  the  same  writer, — four  of  them  at  least 
of  no  inferior  interest,  except  what  results  from 
a  less  felicitous  choice  of  situation  !  "  Roxana," 
"Singleton,"  "Moll  Flanders,"  "  Colonel  Jack," 
are  all  genuine  offspring  of  the  same  father.  They 
bear  the  veritable  impress  of  De  Foe.  An  unprac- 
tised midwife  that  would  not  swear  to  the  nose,  lip, 
forehead,  and  eye  of  every  one  of  them  !  They 
are,  in  their  way,  as  full  of  incident,  and  some  of 
them  every  bit  as  romantic ;  only  they  want  the 
uninhabited  island,  and  the  charm  that  has  be- 
witched the  world,  of  the  striking  solitary  situ- 
ation. 

But  are  there  no  solitudes  out  of  the  cave  and 
the  desert?  or  cannot  the  heart  in  the  midst  of 
crowds  feel  frightfully  alone?  Singleton  on  the 
world  of  waters,  prowling  about  with  pirates  less 
merciful  than  the  creatures  of  any  howling  wilder- 
ness,— is  he  not  alone,  with  the  faces  of  men  about 
him,  but  without  a  guide  that  can  conduct  him 
through  the  mists  of  educational  and  habitual  ig- 
norance, or  a  fellow-heart  that  can  interpret  to  him 
the  new-bom  yearnings  and  aspirations  of  unprac- 
tised penitence  ?  Or  when  the  boy  Colonel  Jack, 
in  the  loneliness  of  the  heart  (the  worst  solitude), 
goes  to  hide  his  ill-purchased  treasure  in  the  hollow 


3i6  ELIANA. 

tree  by  night,  and  miraculously  loses,  and  miracu- 
lously finds  it  again, — whom  hath  he  there  to  sym- 
pathize with  him?  or  of  what  sort  are  his  asso- 
ciates ? 

The  narrative  manner  of  De  Foe  has  a  natural- 
ness about  it  beyond  that  of  any  other  novel  or 
romance  writer.  His  fictions  have 'all  the  air  of 
true  stories.  It  is  impossible  to  believe,  while  you 
are  reading  them,  that  a  real  pei'son  is  not  narrating 
to  you  everywhere  nothing  but  what  really  happened 
to  himself.  To  this  the  extreme  homeliness  of  their 
style  mainly  contributes.  We  use  the  word  in  its 
best  and  heartiest  sense, — that  which  comes  home 
to  the  reader.  The  narrators  everywhere  are  "chosen 
from  low  life,  or  have  had  their  origin  in  it :  therefore 
they  tell  their  own  tales  (Mr.  Coleridge  has  antici- 
pated us  in  this  remark),  as  persons  in  their  degree 
are  observed  to  do,  with  infinite  repetition,  and  an 
overacted  exactness,  lest  the  hearer  should  not  have 
minded,  or  have  forgotten,  some  things  that  had 
been  told  before.  Hence  the  emphatic  sentences 
marked  in  the  good  old  (but  deserted)  Italic  type  ; 
and  hence,  too,  the  frequent  interposition  of  the 
reminding  old  colloquial  parenthesis,  "I  say," 
"Mind,"  and  the  like,  when  the  story-teller  re- 
peats what,  to  a  practised  reader,  might  appear  to 
have  been  sufficiently  insisted  upon  before  :  which 
made  an  ingenious  critic  observe,  that  his  works,  in 
this  kind,  were  excellent  reading  for  the  kitchen. 
And,  in  truth,  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  De  Foe 
can  never  again  hope  to  be  popular  with  a  much 
higher  class  of  readers  than  that  of  the  servant-maid 
or  the  sailor.  Crusoe  keeps  its  rank  only  by  tough 
prescription.  Singleton,  the  pirate  ;  Colonel  Jack, 
the  thief ;  Moll  Flanders,  both  thief  and  harlot ; 
Roxana,  harlot  and  something  worse, — would  be 


DE  FOE'S  SECONDARY  NOVELS.         317 

startling  ingredients  in  the  bill  of  fare  of  modern 
literary  delicacies.  But  then,  what  pirates,  what 
thieves,  and  what  harlots,  is  the  thief,  the  harlot, 
and  the  pirate  of  De  Foe  !  We  would  not  hesitate 
to  sa)',  that  in  no  other  book  of  fiction,  where  the 
lives  of  such  characters  are  described,  is  guilt  ond 
delinquency  made  less  seductive,  or  the  suffering 
made  more  closely  to  follow  the  commission,  or 
the  penitence  more  earnest  or  more  bleeding,  or 
the  intervening  flashes  of  religious  visitation  upon 
the  rude  and  uninstructed  soul  more  meltingly  and 
fearfully  painted.  They,  in  this,  come  near  to  the 
tenderness  of  Bunyan  ;  while  the  livelier  pictures 
and  incidents  in  them,  as  in  Hogarth  or  in  Fielding, 
tend  to  diminish  that  fastidiousness  to  the  concerns 
and  pursuits  of  common  life  which  an  unrestrained 
passion  for  the  ideal  and  the  sentimental  is  in  danger 
of  producing. 


POSTSCRIPT  TO   THE    "CHAPTER 
ON    EARS." 


WRITER,  whose  real  name,  it  seems, 
is  Boldero,  but  who  has  been  entertaining 
the  town  for  the  last  twelve  months  with 
some  very  pleasant  lucubrations  under 
the  assumed  signature  of  Leigh  Hunt,^  in  his 
"  Indicator"  of  the  31st  January  last  has  thought 
fit  to  insinuate  that  I,  Elia,  do  not  write  the  little 
sketches  which  bear  my  signature  in  this  magazine, 

but  that  the  true  author  of  them  is  a  Mr.  L b. 

Observe  the  critical  period  at  which  he  has  chosen 
to  impute  the  calumny, — on  the  very  eve  of  the 
publication  of  our  last  number, — affording  no  scope 
for  explanation  for  a  full  month  ;  during  which 
time  I  must  needs  lie  writhing  and  tossing  under 
the  cruel  imputation  of  nonentity.    Good  Heavens ! 

that  a  plain  man  must  not  be  allowed  to  be 

They  call  this  an  age  of  personality  ;  but  surely 
tfiis  spirit  of  anti-personality  (if  I  may  so  express 
it)  is  something  worse. 

Take  away  my  moral  reputation, — I  may  live  to 
discredit  that  calumny ;  injure  my  literary  fame, — 

'  Clearly  a  fictitious  appellation ;  for,  if  we  admit  the 
Litter  of  these  names  to  be  in  a  manner  English,  what  is 
Leigh  ?  Christian  nomenclature  knows  no  such. 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  "CHAPTER  ON  EARS.       319 

I  may  write  that  up  again  ;  but,  when  a  gentlemar. 
is  robbed  of  his  identity,  where  is  he  ? 

Other  murderers  stab  but  at  our  existence,  a  frail 
and  perishing  trifle  at  the  best ;  but  here  is  an 
assassin  who  aims  at  our  very  essence ;  who  not 
only  forbids  us  to  be  any  longer,  but  to  have  been 
at  all.     Let  our  ancestors  look  to  it. 

Is  the  parish  register  nothing  ?  Is  the  house  in 
Princes  Street,  Cavendish  Square,  where  we  saw 
the  light  six  and  forty  years  ago,  nothing  ?  Were 
our  progenitors  from  stately  Genoa,  where  we 
flourished  four  centuries  back,  before  the  barbarous 
name  of  Boldero '  was  known  to  a  European  mouth, 
nothing  ?  Was  the  goodly  scion  of  our  name,  trans- 
planted into  England  in  the  reign  of  the  seventh 
Henry,  nothing  ?  Are  the  archives  of  the  steelyard, 
in  succeeding  reigns  (if  haply  they  survive  the  fury 
of  our  envious  enemies),  showing  that  we  flourished 
in  prime  repute,  as  merchants,  down  to  the  period 
of  the  Commonweath,  nothing  ? 

Why,  then  the  world,  and  all  that's  in't,  is  nothing ; 
The  covering  sky  is  nothing  ;  Bohemia  nothing. 

I  am  ashamed  that  this  trifling  writer  should  have 
power  to  move  me  so. 

'  It  is  clearly  of  transatlantic  origin. 


ELIA  TO   HIS   CORRESPONDENTS. 


CORRESPONDENT,  who  writes  him- 
self Peter  Ball,  or  Bell, — for  his  hand- 
writing is  as  ragged  as  his  manners, — 
admonishes  me  of  the  old  saying,  that 
some  people  (under  a  courteous  periphrasis,  I  slur 
his  less  ceremonious  epithet)  had  need  have  good 
memories.  In  my  ' '  Old  Benchers  of  the  Inner 
Temple,"  I  have  delivered  myself,  and  truly,  a 
Templar  born.  Bell  clamours  upon  this,  and 
thinketh  that  he  hath  caught  a  fox.  It  seems  that 
in  a  former  paper,  retorting  upon  a  weekly  scrib- 
bler who  had  called  my  good  identity  in  question 
(see  Postscript  to  my  "Chapter  on  Ears"),  Iprofess 
myself  a  native  of  some  spot  near  Cavendish  Square, 
deducing  my  remoter  origin  from  Italy.  But  who 
does  not  see,  except  this  tinkling  cymbal,  that,  in 
the  idle  fiction  of  Genoese  ancestry,  I  was  answering 
a  fool  according  to  his  folly, — that  Elia  there  ex- 
presseth  himself  ironically  as  to  an  approved  slan- 
derer, who  hath  no  right  to  the  truth,  and  can  be 
no  fit  recipient  of  it.  Such  a  one  it  is  usual  to  leave 
to  his  delusions  ;  or,  leading  him  from  error  still  to 
contradictory  error,  to  plunge  him  (as  we  say)  deeper 
in  the  mire,  and  give  him  line  till  he  suspend  him- 
self    No  understanding  reader  could  be  imposed 


ELIA    TO  HIS  CORRESPONDENTS.        321 

upon  by  such  obvious  rhodomontade  to  suspect  me 
for  an  alien,  or  believe  me  other  than  English. 

To  a  second  correspondent,  who  signs  himself 
"  A  Wiltshire  Man,"  and  claims  me  for  a  countiy- 
nian  upon  the  strength  of  an  equivocal  phrase  in 
my  "Christ's  Hospital,"  a  more  mannerly  reply  is 
due.  Passing  over  the  Genoese  fable,  vvliicli  Bell 
makes  such  a  ring  about,  he  nicely  detects  a  more 
subtle  discrepancy,  which  Bell  was  too  obtuse  to 
strike  upon.  Referring  to  the  passage,  I  must  con- 
fess that  the  term  "native  town,"  applied  to  Calne, 
pri7m'i  facie s&ems  to  bear  out  the  construction  which 
my  friendly  correspondent  is  willing  to  put  upon  it. 
The  context  too,  I  am  afraid,  a  little  favours  it. 
But  where  the  words  of  an  author,  taken  literally, 
compared  with  some  other  passage  in  his  writings 
admitted  to  be  authentic,  involve  a  palpable  con- 
tradiction, it  hath  been  the  custom  of  the  ingenious 
commentator  to  smooth  the  difficulty  by  the  sup- 
position that  in  the  one  case  an  allegorical  or 
tropical  sense  was  chiefly  intended.  So,  by  the 
word  "native,"  I  may  be  supposed  to  mean  a  town 
where  I  might  have  been  born,  or  where  it  might 
be  desirable  that  I  should  have  been  born,  as  being 
situate  in  wholesome  air,  upon  a  dry,  chalky  soil, 
in  which  I  delight ;  or  a  town  with  the  inhabitants 
of  which  I  passed  some  weeks,  a  summer  or  two 
ago,  so  agreeably  that  they  and  it  became  in  a 
manner  native  to  me.  Without  some  such  latitude 
of  interpretation  in  the  present  case,  I  see  not  how 
we  can  avoid  falling  into  a  gross  error  in  physics, 
as  to  conceive  that  a  gentleman  may  be  born  in 
two  places,  from  which  all  modern  and  ancient  tes- 
timony is  alike  abhorrent.  Bacchus  cometh  the 
nearest  to  it,   whom  I  remember   Ovid  to   have 

II.  Y 


392  ELI  ANA. 

honoured  with  the  epithet  "twice  born."^  But, 
not  to  mention  that  he  is  so  called  (we  conceive) 
in  reference  to  the  places  whence  rather  than  the 
places  where  he  was  delivered, — for,  by  either 
birth,  he  may  probably  be  challenged  for  a  Theban, 
— in  a  strict  way  of  speaking,  he  was  -a.  filius  feinoris 
by  no  means  in  the  same  sense  as  he  had  been 
before  a^filius  alvi  ;  for  that  latter  was  but  a  secon- 
dary and  tralatitious  way  of  being  born,  and  he  but 
a  denizen  of  the  second  house  of  his  geniture.  Thus 
much  by  way  of  explanation  was  thought  due  to  the 
courteous  "Wiltshire  Man." 

To  "Indagator,"  "Investigator,"  "Incertus," 
and  the  rest  of  the  pack,  that  are  so  importunate 
about  the  true  localities  of  his  birth, — as  if,  for- 
sooth, Elia  were  presently  about  to  be  passed  to 
his  parish,— to  all  such  churchwarden  critics  he 
answereth,  that,  any  explanation  here  given  not- 
withstanding, he  hath  not  so  fixed  his  nativity  (like 
a  rusty  vane)  to  one  dull  spot,  but  that,  if  he  seeth 
occasion,  or  the  argument  shall  demand  it,  he  will 
be  born  again,  in  future  papers,  in  whatever  place, 
and  at  whatever  period,  shall  seem  good  unto  him. 
Modt)  me  Thebis,  modi  Athenis. 

'  Imperfectus  adhuc  infans  genetricis  ab  alvo 
Eripitur,  patrioque  tener  (si  credere  dignum) 

Insuitur  femori 

Tutaque  bis  geniti  sunt  incunabula  Bacchi. 

Metamorph.,  lib.  iii. 


UNITARIAN    PROTESTS; 


IN   A  LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND  OF  THAT 
PERSUASION   NEWLY   MARRIED. 

"EAR   M , — Though   none   of  your 

acquaintance  can  with  greater  sincerity 
congratulate  you  upon  this  happy  con- 
juncture than  myself,  one  of  the  oldest 
of  them,  it  was  with  pain  I  found  you,  after  the 
ceremony,  depositing  in  the  vestry-room  what  is 
called  a  Protest.  I  thought  you  superior  to  this 
little  sophistry.  What  !  after  submitting  to  the 
service  of  the  Church  of  England, — after  consenting 
to  receive  a  boon  from  her,  in  the  person  of  your 
amiable  consort, — was  it  consistent  with  sense,  or 
common  good  manners,  to  turn  round  upon  her,  and 
flatly  taunt  her  with  false  worship  ?  This  language 
is  a  little  of  the  strongest  in  your  books  and  from 
your  pulpits,  though  there  it  may  well  enough  be 
excused  from  religious  zeal  and  the  native  warmth 
of  nonconformity.  But  at  the  altar, — the  Church- 
of-England  altar, — adopting  her  forms,  and  com- 
plying with  her  requisitions  to  the  letter, — to  be 
consistent,  together  with  the  practice,  I  fear,  you 
must  drop  the  language  of  dissent.  You  are  no 
longer  sturdy  non-cons  :  you  are  there  occasional 


324  ELI  AN  A. 

conformists.  You  submit  to  accept  the  privileges 
communicated  by  a  form  of  words,  exceptionable, 
and  perhaps  justly,  in  your  view ;  but,  so  sub- 
mitting, you  have  no  right  to  quarrel  with  the  ritual 
which  you  have  just  condescended  to  owe  an  obli- 
gation to.  They  do  not  force  you  into  their 
churches.  You  come  voluntarily,  knowing  the 
terms.  You  marry  in  the  name  of  the  Trinity. 
There  is  no  evading  this  by  pretending  that  you 
take  the  formula  with  your  own  interpretation  : 
(and,  so  long  as  you  can  do  this,  where  is  the  ne- 
cessity of  protesting  ?)  for  the  meaning  of  a  vow  is 
to  be  settled  by  the  sense  of  the  imposer,  not  by 
any  forced  construction  of  the  taker  ;  else  might  all 
vows,  and  oaths  too,  be  eluded  with  impunity. 
You  marry,  then,  essentially  as  Trinit^ians ;  and 
the  altar  no  sooner  satisfied  than,  hey,  presto  !  with 
the  celerity  of  a  juggler,  you  shift  habits,  and  pro- 
ceed pure  Unitarians  again  in  the  vestry.  You 
cheat  the  church  out  of  a  wife,  and  go  home  smiling 
in  your  sleeves  that  you  have  so  cunningly  despoiled 
the  Egyptians.  In  plain  English,  the  Church  has 
married  you  in  the  name  of  so  and  so,  assuming 
that  you  took  the  words  in  her  sense  :  but  you 
outwitted  her  ;  you  assented  to  them  in  your  sense 
only,  and  took  from  her  what,  upon  a  right  under 
standing,  she  would  have  declined  giving  you. 

This  is  the  fair  construction  to  be  put  upon  all 
Unitarian  marriages,  as  at  present  contracted ;  and, 
so  long  as  you  Unitarians  could  salve  your  con- 
sciences with  the  Equivoque,  I  do  not  see  why  the 
Established  Church  should  have  troubled  herself  at 
all  about  the  matter.  But  the  protesters  necessa- 
rily see  farther.  They  have  some  glimmerings  of 
the  deception ;  they  apprehend  a  flaw  somewhere ; 
they  would  fain  be  honest,  and  yet  they  must  marry 


UNITARIAN  PROTESTS.  325 

notwithstanding ;  for  honesty's  sake,  they  are  fain 
to  dehonestate  themselves  a  little.  Let  me  try  the 
very  words  of  your  own  protest,  to  see  what  con- 
fessions we  can  pick  out  of  them. 

"As  Unitarians,  therefore,  we"  (you  and  your 
newly-espoused  bride)  "most  solemnly  protest 
against  the  service"  (which  yourselves  have  just 
demanded),  "because  we  are  thereby  called  upon 
not  only  tacitly  to  acquiesce,  but  to  profess  a  belief 
in  a  doctrine  which  is  a  dogma,  as  we  believe, 
totally  unfounded."  But  do  you  profess  that  belief 
during  the  ceremony?  or  are  you  only  called  upon 
for  the  profession,  but  do  not  make  it?  If  the 
latter,  then  you  fall  in  with  the  rest  of  your  more 
consistent  brethren  who  waive  the  protest ;  if  the 
former,  then,  I  fear,  your  protest  cannot  save  you. 

Hard  and  grievous  it  is,  that,  in  any  case,  an 
institution  so  broad  and  general  as  the  union  of 
man  and  wife  should  be  so  cramped  and  straitened 
by  the  hands  of  an  imposing  hierarchy,  that,  to 
plight  troth  to  a  lovely  woman,  a  man  must  be 
necessitated  to  compromise  his  truth  and  faith  to 
Heaven  ;  but  so  it  must  be,  so  long  as  you  choose 
to  marry  by  the  forms  of  the  Church  over  which 
that  hierarchy  presides. 

" Therefore,"  say  you,  "we  protest."  Oh,  pour 
and  much-fallen  word.  Protest !  It  was  not  so  that 
the  first  heroic  reformers  protested.  They  de- 
parted out  of  Babylon  once  for  good  and  all ;  they 
came  not  back  for  an  occasional  contact  with  her 
altars, — a  dallying,  and  then  a  protesting  against 
dalliance ;  they  stood  not  shuffling  in  the  porch, 
with  a  Popish  foot  within,  and  its  lame  Lutheran 
fellow  without,  halting  betwixt.  These  were  the 
true  Protestants.     You  are — protesters. 

Besides  the  inconsistency  of  this  proceeding,  I 


326  ELI  AN  A. 

must  think  it  a  piece  of  impertinence,  miseasonable 
at  least,  and  out  of  place,  to  obtrude  these  papers 
upon  the  officiating  clergyman  ;  to  offer  to  a  public 
functionary  an  instrument  which  by  the  tenor  of 
his  function  he  is  not  obliged  to  accept,  but  rather 
he  is  called  upon  to  reject.  Is  it  done  in  his  cle- 
rical capacity  ?  He  has  no  power  of  redressing  the 
grievance.  It  is  to  take  the  benefit  of  his  ministiy, 
and  then  insult  him.  If  in  his  capacity  of  fellow- 
Christian  only,  what  are  your  scruples  to  him,  so 
long  as  you  yourselves  are  able  to  get  over  them, 
and  do  get  over  them  by  the  very  fact  of  coming 
to  require  his  services  ?  The  thing  you  call  a  Pro- 
test might  with  just  as  good  a  reason  be  presented 
to  the  churchwarden  for  the  time  being,  to  the 
parish-clerk,  or  the  pew-opener. 

The  Parliament  alone  can  redress  your  grievance, 
if  any.  Yet  I  see  not  how  with  any  grace  your 
people  can  petition  for  relief,  so  long  as,  by  the 
very  fact  of  your  coming  to  church  to  be  married, 
they  do  bond  fide  and  strictly  relieve  themselves. 
The  Upper  House,  in  particular,  is  not  unused  to 
these  same  things,  called  Protests,  among  them- 
selves. But  how  would  this  honourable  body  stare 
to  find  a  noble  lord  conceding  a  measure,  and  in 
the  next  breath,  by  a  solemn  protest,  disowning 
it  !  A  protest  there  is  a  reason  given  for  non- 
compliance, not  a  subterfuge  for  an  equivocal  oc- 
casional compliance.  It  was  reasonable  in  the 
primitive  Christians  to  avert  from  their  persons, 
by  whatever  lawful  means,  the  compulsory  eating 
of  meats  which  had  been  offered  unto  idols.  I 
dare  say  the  Roman  prefects  and  exarchates  had 
plenty  of  petitioning  in  their  days.  But  what  would 
a  Festus  or  Agrippa  have  replied  to  a  petition  to 
that  effect,  presented  to  him  by  some  evasive  Lao- 


UNITARIAN  PROTESTS,  327 

dicean,  with  the  very  meat  between  his  teeth, 
which  he  had  been  chewing  voluntarily,  rather 
than  abide  the  penalty?  Relief  for  tender  con- 
sciences means  nothing,  where  the  conscience  has 
previously  relieved  itself;  that  is,  has  complied 
with  the  injunctions  which  it  seeks  preposterously 
to  be  rid  of.  Relief  for  conscience  there  is  pro- 
perly none,  but  what  by  better  information  makes 
an  act  appear  innocent  and  lawful  with  which  the 
previous  conscience  was  not  satisfied  to  comply. 
All  else  is  but  relief  from  penalties,  from  scandal 
incurred  by  a  complying  practice,  where  the  con- 
science itself  is  not  fully  satisfied. 

"  But,"  say  you,  "  we  have  hard  measure :  the 
Quakers  are  indulged  with  the  liberty  denied  to 
us. "  They  are ;  and  dearly  have  they  earned  it. 
You  have  come  in  (as  a  sect  at  least)  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening, — at  the  eleventh  hour.  The  Quaker 
character  was  hardened  in  the  fires  of  persecution 
in  the  seventeenth  century ;  not  quite  to  the  stake 
and  faggot,  but  little  short  of  that ;  they  grew  up 
and  thrived  against  noisome  prisons,  cruel  beatings, 
whippings,  stockings.  They  have  since  endured 
a  century  or  two  of  scoffs,  contempts;  they  have 
been  a  by-word  and  a  nay-word ;  they  have  stood 
unmoved :  and  the  consequence  of  long  conscien- 
tious resistance  on  one  part  is  invariably,  in  the 
end,  remission  on  the  other.  The  Legislature, 
that  denied  you  the  tolerance,  which  I  do  not  know 
that  at  that  time  you  even  asked,  gave  them  the 
liberty,  which,  without  granting,  they  would  have 
assumed.  No  penalties  could  have  driven  them 
into  the  churches.  This  is  the  consequence  of  entire 
measures.  Had  the  early  Quakers  consented  to 
take  oaths,  leaving  a  protest  with  the  clerk  of  the 
court  against  them  in  the  same  breath  with  which 


328  ELI  ANA. 

they  had  taken  them,  do  you  in  your  conscience 
thinli  that  they  would  have  been  indulged  at  this 
day  in  their  exclusive  privilege  of  affirming?  Let 
your  people  go  on  for  a  century  or  so,  marrying  in 
your  own  fashion,  and  I  will  warrant  them,  before 
the  end  of  it,  the  Legislature  will  be  willing  to 
concede  to  them  more  than  they  at  present  de- 
mand. 

Either  the  institution  of  marriage  depends  not 
for  its  validity  upon  hypocritical  compliances  with 
the  ritual  of  an  alien  Church  (and  then  I  do  not  see 
why  you  cannot  marry  among  yourselves,  as  the 
Quakers,  without  their  indulgence,  would  have 
been  doing  to  this  day),  or  it  does  depend  upon 
such  ritual  compliance  ;  and  then,  in  your  protests, 
you  offend  against  a  divine  ordinance.  I  have  read 
in  the  Essex  Stred;  Liturgy  a  form  for  the  celebra- 
tion of  marriage.  Why  is  this  become  a  dead 
letter  ?  Oh  !  it  has  never  been  legalized ;  that  is 
to  say,  in  the  law's  eye,  it  is  no  marriage.  But  do 
you  take  upon  you  to  say,  in  the  view  of  the  gospel 
it  would  be  none?  Would  your  own  people,  at 
least,  look  upon  a  couple  so  paired  to  be  none? 
But  the  case  of  dowries,  alimonies,  inheritances, 
&c. ,  which  depend  for  their  validity  upon  the  cere- 
monial of  the  Church  by  lav/  established, —  are 
these  nothing?  That  our  children  are  not  legally 
Filii  Nullius, — is  this  nothing?  I  answer.  No- 
thing; to  the  preservation  of  a  good  conscience, 
nothing ;  to  a  consistent  Christianity,  less  than 
nothing.  Sad  worldly  thorns  they  are  indeed,  and 
stumbling-blocks  well  worthy  to  be  set  out  of  the 
way  by  a  Legislature  calling  itself  Christian  ;  but 
not  likely  to  be  removed  in  a  hurry  by  any  shrewd 
legislators  who  perceive  that  the  petitioning  com- 
plainants have  not  so  much  as  bruised  a  shin  in  the 


UNITARIAN  PROTESTS.  329 

resistance,  but,  prudently  declining  the  briers  and 
the  prickles,  nestle  quietly  down  in  the  smooth 
two-sided  velvet  of  a  protesting  occasional  con- 
formity. 

I  am,  dear  sir, 

With  much  respect,  yours,  &c., 
Elia. 


ON   THE    CUSTOM   OF   HISSING 
AT  THE   THEATRES; 


WITH  SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  A  CLUB  OF  DAMNED 
AUTHORS. 

]R.  reflector,— I  am  one  of  those 
persons  whom  the  world  has  thought 
proper  to  designate  by  the  title  of 
Damned  Authors.  In  that  memorable 
season  of  dramatic  failures,  1806-7, — in  which  no 
fewer,  I  think,  than  two  tragedies,  four  comedies, 
one  opera,  and  three  farces,  suffered  at  Drury  Lane 
Theatre, — I  was  found  guilty  of  constructing  an 
afterpiece,  and  was  damned. 

Against  the  decision  of  the  public  in  such  in- 
stances there  can  be  no  appeal.  The  clerk  of  Chat- 
ham might  as  well  have  protested  against  the  de- 
cision of  Cade  and  his  followers,  who  were  then 
the  public.  Like  him,  I  was  condemned  because 
I  could  write. 

Not  but  it  did  appear  to  some  of  us  that  the 
measures  of  the  popular  tribunal  at  that  period  sa- 
voured a  little  of  harshness  and  of  the  sumnmmjus. 
The  public  mouth  was  early  in  the  season  fleshed 
upon  the  "Vindictive  Man,"  and  some  pieces  of 


HISSING  AT  THE   THEATRES.  331 

that  nature ;  and  it  retained,  through  the  remain- 
der of  it,  a  relish  of  blood.  As  Dr.  Johnson  would 
have  said,  "  Sir,  there  was  a  habit  of  sibilation  in 
the  house." 

Still  less  am  I  disposed  to  inquire  into  the  reason 
of  the  comparative  lenity,  on  the  other  hand,  with 
which  some  pieces  were  treated,  which,  to  indiffe- 
rent judges,  seemed  at  least  as  much  deserving  of 
condemnation  as  some  of  those  which  met  with  it. 
I  am  willing  to  put  a  favourable  construction  upon 
the  votes  that  were  given  against  us  ;  I  believe  that 
there  was  no  bribery  or  designed  partiality  in  the 
case:  only  "  our  nonsense  did  not  happen  to  suit 
their  nonsense;"  that  was  all. 

But  against  the  manner  in  which  the  public  on 
these  occasions,  think  fit  to  deliver  their  disapproba- 
tion, I  must  and  ever  will  protest. 

Sir,  imagine — but  you  have  been  present  at  the 
damning  of  a  piece  (those  who  never  had  that  fe- 
licity, I  beg  them  to  imagine)— a  vast  theatre  like 
that  which  Drury  Lane  was  before  it  was  a  heap  of 
dust  and  ashes  (I  insult  not  over  its  fallen  great- 
ness ;  let  it  recover  itself  when  it  can  for  me,  let  it 
lift  up  its  towering  head  once  more,  and  take  in 
poor  authors  to  write  for  it  ;  hie  castus  artemque 
rcpono), — a  theatre  like  that,  filled  with  all  sorts 
of  disgusting  soundsj — shrieks,  groans,  hisses,  but 
chiefly  the  last,  like  the  noise  of  many  waters,  or 
that  which  Don  Quixote  heard  from  the  fulling- 
mills,  or  that  wilder  combination  of  devilish  sounds 
which  St.  Anthony  listened  to  in  the  wilderness. 

Oh!  Mr.  Reflector,  is  it  not  a  pity  that  the 
sweet  human  voice,  which  was  given  man  to  speak 
with,  to  sing  with,  to  whisper  tones  of  love  in, 
to  express  compliance,  to  convey  a  favour,  or  to 
grant  a  suit, — that  voice,  which  in  a  Siddons  or  a 


332  ELIANA. 

Braham  rouses  us,  in  a  siren  Catalani  charms  and 
captivates  us, — that  the  musical,  expressive  human 
voice  should  be  converted  into  a  rival  of  the  noises 
of  silly  geese,  and  irrational,  venomous  snakes? 

I  never  shall  forget  the  sounds  on  7ny  night.  I 
never  before  that  time  fully  felt  the  reception  which 
the  Author  of  All  111,  in  the  "Paradise  Lost," 
meets  with  from  the  critics  in  the  pit,  at  the  final 
close  of  his  "  Tragedy  upon  the  Human  Race," — 
though  that,  alas  !  met  with  too  much  success  : — 

From  innumerable  tongues 
A  dismal  universal  hiss,  the  sound 
Of  public  scorn.     Dreadful  was  the  din 
Of  hissing  through  the  hall,  thick  swarming  nov/ 
With  complicated  monsters,  head  and  tail, 
Scorpion  and  asp,  and  Amphisboena  dire, 
Cerastes  homed,  Hydrus,  and  Elops  drear. 
And  Dipsas. 

For  hall  substitute  theatre,  and  you  have  the 
very  image  of  what  takes  place  at  what  is  called 
the  damnation  of  a  piece,  — and  properly  so  called  ; 
for  here  you  see  its  origin  plainly,  whence  the  cus- 
tom was  derived,  and  what  the  first  piece  was  that 
so  suffered.  After  this,  none  can  doubt  the  pro- 
priety of  the  appellation. 

But,  sir,  as  to  the  justice  of  bestowing  such  ap- 
palling, heart-withering  denunciations  of  the  popu- 
lar obloquy  upon  the  venial  mistake  of  a  poor 
author,  who  thought  to  please  us  in  the  act^  of 
filling  his  pockets, — for  the  sum  of  his  demerits 
amounts  to  no  more  than  that, — it  does,  I  own, 
seem  to  me  a  species  of  retributive  justice  far  too 
severe  for  the  offence.  A  culprit  in  the  pillory 
(bate  the  eggs)  meets  with  no  severer  exprobration. 

Indeed,  I  have  often  wondered  that  some  modest 
critic  has  not   proposed  that  there  should   be  a 


HISSING  AT  THE   THEATRES.  333 

wooden  machine  to  that  effect  erected  in  some  con- 
venient part  of  the  proscenhini,  which  an  unsuc- 
cessful author  should  be  required  to  mount,  and 
stand  his  hour,  exposed  to  the  apples  and  oranges 
of  the  pit.  This  amende  honorable  would  well  suit 
with  the  meanness  of  some  authors,  who,  in  their 
prologues,  fairly  prostrate  their  skulls  to  the  au- 
dience, and  seem  to  invite  a  pelting. 

Or  why  should  they  not  have  their  pens  publicly 
broke  over  their  heads,  as  the  swords  of  recreant 
knights  in  old  times  were,  and  an  oath  adminis- 
tered to  them  that  they  should  never  write  again  ? 

Seriously,  Messieurs  the  Public,  this  outrageous 
way  which  you  have  got  of  expressing  your  dis- 
pleasures is  too  much  for  the  occasion.  When  I 
was  deafening  under  the  effects  of  it,  I  could  not 
help  asking  what  crime  of  great  moral  turpitude  I 
had  committed :  for  every  man  about  me  seemed 
to  feel  the  offence  as  personal  to  himself ;  as  some- 
thing which  public  interest  and  private  feelings 
alike  called  upon  him,  in  the  strongest  possible 
manner,  to  stigmatize  with  infamy. 

The  Romans,  it  is  well  known  to  you,  Mr.  Re- 
flector, took  a  gentler  method  of  marking  their 
disapprobation  of  an  author's  work.  They  were  a 
humane  and  equitable  nation.  They  left  the/«rca 
and  the  patibulum,  the  axe  and  the  rods,  to  great 
offenders  :  for  these  minor  and  (if  I  may  so  term 
them)  extra-moral  offences,  the  be7tt thumb  was  con- 
sidered as  a  sufficient  sign  of  disapprobation,— 
vertere  polliccm ;  as  the  pressed  thumb,  premere 
pollicem,  was  a  mark  of  approving. 

And  really  there  seems  to  have  been  a  sort  of 
fitness  in  this  method,  a  correspondency  of  sign  in 
the  punishment  to  the  offence.  For,  as  the  action 
of  writing  is  performed  by  bending  the  thumb  for- 


334  ELI  ANA. 

ward,  the  retroversion  or  bending  back  of  that 
joint  did  not  unaptly  point  to  the  opposite  of  that 
action  ;  implying  that  it  was  the  will  of  the  au- 
dience that  the  author  should  write  no  more:  a 
much  more  significant  as  well  as  more  humane  way 
of  expressing  that  desire  than  our  custom  of  hissing, 
which  is  altogether  senseless  and  indefensible.  Nor 
do  we  find  that  the  Roman  audiences  deprived 
themselves,  by  this  lenity,  of  any  tittle  of  that  su- 
premacy which  audiences  in  all  ages  have  thought 
themselves  bound  to  maintain  over  such  as  have 
been  candidates  for  their  applause.  On  the  con- 
trary, by  this  method  they  seem  to  have  had  the 
author,  as  we  should  express  it,  completely  under 
finger  and  tkutnh. 

The  provocations  to  which  a  dramatic  genius  is 
exposed  from  the  public  are  so  much  the  more 
vexatious  as  they  are  removed  from  any  possibility 
of  retaliation,  the  hope  of  which  sweetens  most 
other  injuries  ;  for  the  public  never  writes  itself. 
Not  but  something  very  like  it  took  place  at  the 
time  of  the  O.  P.  differences.  The  placards  which 
were  nightly  exliibited  were,  properly  speaking, 
the  composition  of  the  public.  The  public  wrote 
them,  the  public  applauded  them ;  and  precious 
morceaux  of  wit  and  eloquence  they  were, — except 
some  few,  of  a  better  quality,  which  it  is  well 
known  were  furnished  by  professed  dramatic 
writers.  After  this  specimen  of  what  the  public 
can  do  for  itself,  it  should  be  a  little  slow  in  con- 
demning what  others  do  for  it. 

As  the  degrees  of  malignancy  vary  in  people  ac- 
cording as  they  have  more  or  less  of  the  Old  Serpent 
(the  father  of  hisses)  in  their  composition,  I  have 
sometimes  amused  myself  with  analyzing  this  many- 
headed  hydra,  which  calls  itself  the  public,  into  the 


HISSING  AT  THE   THEATRES.  333 

component  parts  of  which  it  is  "complicated,  head 
and  tail,"  and  seeing  how  many  varieties  of  the 
snake  kind  it  can  afford. 

First,  there  is  the  Common  English  Snake. — 
This  is  that  part  of  the  auditory  who  are  always 
the  majority  at  damnations ;  but  who,  having  no 
critical  venom  in  themselves  to  sting  them  on,  stay 
till  they  hear  others  hiss,  and  then  join  in  for 
company. 

The  Blind  Worm  is  a  species  very  nearly  allied 
to  the  foregoing.  Some  naturalists  have  doubted 
whether  they  are  not  the  same. 

The  Rattlesnake. — These  are  your  obstreperous 
talking  critics, — the  impertinent  guides  of  the  pit, — 
who  will  not  give  a  plain  man  leave  to  enjoy  an 
evening's  entertainment ;  but,  with  their  frothy 
jargon  and  incessant  finding  of  faults,  either  drown 
his  pleasure  quite,  or  force  him,  in  his  own  defence, 
to  join  in  their  clamorous  censure.  The  hiss  always 
originates  with  these.  When  this  creature  springs 
his  rattle,  you  would  think,  from  the  noise  it  makes, 
there  was  something  in  it ;  but  you  have  only  to 
examine  the  instrument  from  which  the  noise  pro- 
ceeds, and  you  will  find  it  typical  of  a  critic's 
tongue,— a  shallow  membrane,  empty,  voluble,  and 
seated  in  the  most  contemptible  part  of  the  crea- 
ture's body. 

The  Whipsnake.— This  is  he  that  lashes  the 
poor  author  the  next  day  in  the  newspapers. 

The  Deaf  Adder,  or  Surda  Echidna  of  Linnaeus. 
— Under  this  head  may  be  classed  all  that  portion 
of  the  spectators  (for  audience  they  properly  are 
not),  who,  not  finding  the  first  act  of  a  piece  an- 
swer to  their  preconceived  notions  of  what  a  first 
act  should  be,  like  Obstinate  in  John  Bunyan, 
positively  thrust  their  fingers  in  their  ears,   thoL 


336  ELI  ANA. 

they  may  not  hear  a  word  of  what  is  coming, 
though  perhaps  the  very  next  act  may  be  composed 
in  a  style  as  different  as  possible,  and  be  written 
quite  to  their  own  tastes.  These  adders  refuse  to 
hear  the  voice  of  the  charmer,  because  the  tuning 
of  his  instrument  gave  them  offence. 

I  should  weary  you,  and  myself  too,  if  I  were  to 
go  through  all  the  classes  of  the  serpent  kind.  Two 
qualities  are  common  to  them  all.  They  are  crea- 
tures of  remarkably  cold  digestions,  and  chiefly 
haunt /?Vj  and  low  grounds. 

I  proceed  with  more  pleasure  to  give  you  an 
account  of  a  club  to  which  I  have  the  honour  to 
belong.  There  are  fourteen  of  us,  who  are  all 
authors  that  have  been  once  in  our  lives  what  is 
called  damned.  We  meet  on  the  anniversaries  of 
our  respective  nights,  and  make  ourselves  merry  at 
tlie  expense  of  the  public.  The  chief  tenets  which 
distinguish  our  society,  and  which  every  man  among 
us  is  bound  to  hold  for  gospel,  are, — 

That  the  public,  or  mob,  in  all  ages,  have  been 
a  set  of  blind,  deaf,  obstinate,  senseless,  illiterate 
savages.  That  no  man  of  genius,  in  his  senses, 
would  be  ambitious  of  pleasing  such  a  capricious, 
ungrateful  rabble.  That  the  only  legitimate  end  of 
writing  for  them  is  to  pick  their  pockets  ;  and,  that 
failing,  we  are  at  full  liberty  to  vilify  and  abuse 
them  as  much  as  ever  we  think  fit. 

That  authors,  by  their  affected  pretences  to  hu- 
mility, which  they  made  use  of  as  a  cloak  to  in- 
sinuate their  writings  into  the  callous  senses  of  the 
multitude,  obtuse  to  everything  but  the  grossest 
flattery,  have  by  degrees  made  that  great  beast 
their  master  ;  as  we  may  act  submission  to  children 
till  we  are  obliged  to  practise  it  in  earnest.     That 


HISSING  AT  THE   THEATRES.  337 

authors  are  and  ought  to  be  considered  the  masters 
and  preceptors  of  the  public,  and  not  vice  versd. 
That  it  was  so  in  the  days  of  Orpheus,  Linus,  and 
Musaeus ;  and  would  be  so  again,  if  it  were  not 
that  writers  prove  traitors  to  themselves.  That,  in 
particular,  in  the  days  of  the  first  of  those  three 
great  authors  just  mentioned,  audiences  appear  to 
have  been  perfect  models  of  what  audiences  should 
be ;  for  though,  along  with  the  trees  and  the  rocks 
and  the  wild  creatures  which  he  drew  after  him  to 
listen  to  his  strains,  some  serpents  doubtless  came 
to  hear  his  music,  it  does  not  appear  that  any  one 
among  them  ever  lifted  up  a  dissentient  voice.  They 
knew  what  was  due  to  authors  in  those  days.  Now 
every  stock  and  stone  turns  into  a  serpent,  and  has 
a  voice. 

That  the  terms  "  courteous  reader  "  and  "candid 
auditors,"  as  having  given  rise  to  a  false  notion  in 
those  to  whom  they  were  applied,  as  if  they  con- 
ferred upon  them  some  right,  'which  they  cannot 
have,  of  exercising  their  judgments,  ought  to  be 
utterly  banished  and  exploded. 

These  are  our  distinguishing  tenets.  To  keep  up 
the  memory  of  the  cause  in  which  we  suffered,  as 
the  ancients  sacrificed  a  goat,  a  supposed  unhealthy 
animal,  to  ^scidapius,  on  our  feast-nights  we  cut 
up  a  goose,  an  animal  typical  of  the  poptilar  voice, 
to  the  deities  of  Candour  and  Patient  Hearing.  A 
zealous  member  of  the  society  once  proposed  that 
we  should  revive  the  obsolete  luxury  of  viper-broth; 
but,  the  stomachs  of  some  of  the  company  rising  at 
the  proposition,  we  lost  the  benefit  of  that  highly 
salutary  and  antidotal  dish. 

The  privilege  of  admission  to  our  club  is  strictly 
limited  to  such  as  have  been  fairly  damned.  A  piece 
that  has  met  with  ever  so  little  applause,  that  has 

II.  z 


338  ELTANA. 

but  languished  its  night  or  two,  and  then  gone  out, 
will  never  entitle  its  author  to  a  seat  among  us. 
An  exception  to  our  usual  readiness  in  conferring 
this  privilege  is  in  the  case  of  a  writer,  who,  having 
been  once  condemned,  writes  again,  and  becomes 
candidate  for  a  second  martyrdom.  Simple  dam- 
nation we  hold  to  be  a  merit;  but  to  be  twice 
damned  we  adjudge  infamous.  Such  a  one  we 
utterly  reject,  and  blackball  without  a  hearing : — 

T/ie  coinman  dam>ied  shun  his  society. 

Hoping  that  your  publication  of  our  regulations 
may  be  a  means  of  inviting  some  more  members 
into  our  society,  I  conclude  this  long  letter. 
I  am,  sir,  yours, 

Semel-Damnatus. 


CAPTAIN    STARKEY. 


EAR  SIR, — I  read  your  account  of  this 
unfortunate  being,  and  his  forlorn  piece 
of  self-history,'  with  that  smile  of  half- 
interest  which  the  annals  of  insignifi- 
cance excite,  till  I  came  to  where  he  says,  "  I  was 
bound  apprentice  to  Mr.  William  Bird,  an  eminent 
writer,  and  teacher  of  languages  and  mathematics," 
&c.  ;  when  I  started  as  one  does  in  the  recognition 
of  an  old  acquaintance  in  a  supposed  stranger. 
This,  then,  was  that  Stark ey  of  whom  I  have  heard 
my  sister  relate  so  many  pleasing  anecdotes  ;  and 
whom,  never  having  seen,  I  yet  seem  almost  to 
remember.  For  nearly  fifty  years,  she  had  lost  all 
sight  of  him  ;  and,  behold  !  the  gentle  usher  of  her 
youth,  grown  into  an  aged  beggar,  dubbed  with  an 
opprobrious  title  to  which  he  had  no  pretensions  ; 
an  object  and  a  May-game  !  To  what  base  pur- 
poses may  we  not  return !  What  may  not  have 
been  the  meek  creature's  sufferings,  what  his  wan- 


'  "  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Benjamin  Starkey,  late  of  Lon- 
don, but  now  an  inmate  of  the  Freeman's  Hospital  in  New- 
castle. Written  by  himself.  With  a  portrait  of  the  author, 
and  a  fac-simile  of  his  handwriting.  Printed  and  sold  by 
William  Hall,  Great  Market,  Newcastle."  1818.  [2mo, 
pv.  14. 


340  EL/AiVA. 

derings,  before  he  finally  settled  down  in  the 
comparative  comfort  of  an  old  hospitaller  of  the 
almoniy  of  Newcastle?  And  is  poor  Starkey 
dead  ? 

I  was  a  scholar  of  that  "eminent  writer"  tliat 
he  speaks  of;  but  Starkey  had  quitted  the  school 
about  a  year  before  I  came  to  it.  Still  the  odour 
of  his  merits  had  left  a  fragrancy  upon  the  recol- 
lection of  the  elder  pupils.  The  schoolroom  stands 
where  it  did,  looking  into  a  discoloured,  dingy 
garden  in  the  passage  leading  from  Fetter  Lane  into 
Bartlett's  Buildings.  It  is  still  a  school,  though  the 
main  prop,  alas  !  has  fellen  so  ingloriously  ;  and 
bears  a  Latin  inscription  over  the  entrance  in  the 
lane,  which  was  unknown  in  our  humbler  times. 
Heaven  knows  what  "languages"  were  taught  in 
it  then  !  I  am  sure  that  neither  my  sister  nor  my- 
self brought  any  out  of  it  but  a  little  of  our  native 
English.  By  "mathematics,"  reader,  must  be  un- 
derstood "ciphering."  It  was,  in  fact,  a  humble 
day-school,  at  which  reading  and  writing  were 
taught  to  us  boys  in  the  morning ;  and  the  same 
slender  erudition  was  communicated  to  the  girls, 
our  sisters,  &c.,  in  the  evening.  Now,  Starkey  pre- 
sided, under  Bird,  over  both  establishments.  In 
my  time,  Mr.  Cook,  now  or  lately  a  respectable 
singer  and  performer  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  and 
nephew  to  Mr.  Bird,  had  succeeded  to  him.  I 
well  remember  Bird.  He  was  a  squat,  corpident^ 
middle-sized  man,  with  something  of  the  gentle- 
man about  him,  and  that  peculiar  mild  tone — 
especially  while  he  was  inflicting  punishment — 
which  is  so  much  more  terrible  to  children  than  the 
angriest  looks  and  gestures.  Whippings  were  not 
frequent ;  but,  when  they  took  place,  the  correction 
was  performed  in  a  private  room  adjoining,  where 


CAPTAIN  STARKEV.  341 

we  could  only  hear  the  plaints,  but  saw  nothing. 
This  heightened  the  decorum  and  the  solemnity. 
But  the  ordinary  chastisement  was  the  bastinado, 
a  stroke  or  two  on  the  palm  with  that  almost  ob- 
solete weapon  now, — the  ferule.  A  ferule  was  a 
sort  of  flat  ruler,  widened,  at  the  inflicting  end, 
into  a  shape  resembling  a  pear, — but  nothing  like 
so  sweet, — with  a  delectable  hole  in  the  middle  to 
raise  blisters,  like  a  cupping-glass.  I  have  an  in- 
tense recollection  of  that  disused  instrument  of 
torture,  and  the  malignancy,  in  proportion  to  the 
apparent  mildness,  with  which  its  strokes  were  ap- 
plied. The  idea  of  a  rod  is  accompanied  with  some- 
thing ludicrous  ;  but  by  no  process  can  I  look  back 
upon  this  blister-raiser  with  anything  but  un- 
mingled  horror.  To  make  him  look  more  for- 
midable,— if  a  pedagogue  had  need  of  these 
heightenings, — Bird  wore  one  of  those  flowered 
Indian  gowns  formerly  in  use  with  schoolmasters, 
the  strange  figures  upon  which  we  used  to  interpret 
into  hieroglyphics  of  pain  and  suffering.  But, 
boyish  fears  apart,  Bird,  I  believe,  was,  in  the 
main,  a  humane  and  judicious  master. 

Oh,  how  I  remember  our  legs  wedged  into  those 
uncomfortable  sloping  desks,  where  we  sat  elbowing 
each  other  ;  and  the  injunctions  to  attain  a  free 
hand,  unattainable  in  that  position  ;  the  first  copy 
I  wrote  after,  with  its  moral  lesson,  "  Art  improves 
Nature ;  "  the  still  earlier  pothooks  and  the  hangers, 
some  traces  of  which  I  fear  may  yet  be  apparent  in 
this  manuscript  ;  the  truant  looks  side-long  to  the 
garden,  which  seemed  a  mockery  of  our  imprison- 
ment ;  the  prize  for  best  spelling  which  had  almost 
turned  my  head,  and  which,  to  this  day,  I  cannot 
reflect  upon  without  a  vanity,  which  I  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of;  our  little  leaden  inkstands,  not  sepa- 


34a  ELIANA. 

lately  subsisting,  but  sunk  into  the  desks ;  the 
bright,  punctually-washed  morning  fingers,  dark- 
ening gradually  with  another  and  another  ink- 
spot  !  What  a  world  of  little  associated  circum- 
stances, pains,  and  pleasures,  mingling  their  quotas 
of  pleasure,  arise  at  the  reading  of  those  few  simple 
words, — "Mr.  William  Bird,  an  eminent  writer, 
and  teacher  of  languages  and  mathematics,  in 
Fetter  Lane,  Holborn  ! " 

Poor  Starkey,  when  young,  had  that  peculiar 
stamp  of  old-fashionedness  in  his  face  which  makes 
it  impossible  for  a  beholder  to  predicate  any  par- 
ticular age  in  the  object.  You  can  scarce  make  a 
guess  between  seventeen  and  seven  and  thirty. 
This  antique  cast  always  seems  to  promise  ill-luck 
and  penuiy.  Yet  it  seems  he  was  not  always  the 
abject  thing  he  came  to.  My  sister,  who  well  re- 
members him,  can  hardly  forgive  Mr.  Thomas 
Ransor  for  making  an  etching  so  unlike  her  idea 
of  him  when  he  was  a  youthful  teacher  at  Mr.  Bird's 
school.  Old  age  and  poverty — a  lifelong  poverty, 
she  thinks — could  at  no  time  have  so  effaced  the 
marks  of  native  gentility  which  were  once  visible 
in  a  face  otherwise  strikingly  ugly,  thin,  and  care- 
worn. From  her  recollections  of  him,  she  thinks 
that  he  would  have  wanted  bread  before  he  would 
have  begged  or  borrowed  a  halfpenny.  "  If  any 
of  the  girls,"  she  says,  "who  were  my  school- 
fellows, should  be  reading,  through  their  aged 
spectacles,  tidings,  from  the  dead,  of  their  youthful 
friend  Starkey,  they  will  feel  a  pang,  as  I  do,  at 
having  teased  his  gentle  spirit."  They  were  big 
girls,  it  seems — too  old  to  attend  his  instructions 
with  the  silence  necessary ;  and,  however  old  age 
and  a  long  state  of  beggary  seem  to  have  reduced 
his  writing  faculties  to  a  state  of  imbecility,  in 


CAPTAIN  STARKEV.  343 

those  days  his  language  occasionally  rose  to  the 
bold  and  figurative ;  for,  when  he  was  in  despair 
to  stop  their  chattering,  his  ordinary  phrase  was, 
"  Ladies,  if  you  will  not  hold  your  peace,  not  all 
the  powers  in  heaven  can  make  you."  Once  he 
was  missing  for  a  day  or  two  :  he  had  run  away. 
A  little,  old,  unhappy-looking  man  brought  him 
back, — it  was  his  father,— and  he  did  no  business 
in  the  school  that  day,  but  sat  moping  in  a  comer, 
with  his  hands  before  his  face  ;  and  the  girls,  his 
tormentors,  in  pity  for  his  case,  for  the  rest  of  that 
day  forbore  to  annoy  him.  "  I  had  been  there  but 
a  few  months,"  adds  she,  "when  Starkey,  who  was 
the  chief  instructor  of  us  girls,  communicated  to  us 
a  profound  secret, — that  the  tragedy  of  '  Cato '  was 
shortly  to  be  acted  by  the  elder  boys,  and  that  we 
were  to  be  invited  to  the  representation."  That 
Starkey  lent  a  helping  hand  in  fashioning  the  ac- 
tors, she  remembers  ;  and,  but  for  his  unfortunate 
person,  he  might  have  had  some  distinguished  part 
in  the  scene  to  enact.  As  it  was,  he  had  the  arduous 
task  of  prompter  assigned  to  him,  and  his  feeble 
voice  was  heard  clear  and  distinct,  repeating  the 
text  during  the  whole  performance.  She  describes 
her  recollection  of  the  cast  of  characters,  even  now, 
with  a  relish.  Martia,  by  the  handsome  Edgar 
Hickman,  who  afterwards  went  to  Africa,  and  of 
whom  she  never  afterwards  heard  tidings  ;  Lucia, 
by  Master  Walker,  whose  sister  was  her  particular 
friend  ;  Cato,  by  John  Hunter,  a  masterly  de- 
claimer,  but  a  plain  boy,  and  shorter  by  the  head 
than  his  two  sons  in  the  scene,  &c.  In  conclusion, 
Starkey  appears  to  have  been  one  of  those  mild 
spirits,  which,  not  originally  deficient  in  under- 
standing, are  crushed  by  penury  into  dejection  and 
feebleness.     He  might  have  proved  a  useful  ad- 


344  ELIANA. 

junct,  if  not  an  ornament,  to  society,  if  Fortune 
had  taken  him  into  a  very  little  fostering ;  but, 
wanting  that,  he  became  a  captain, — a  by-word, — 
and  lived  and  died  a  broken  bulrush. 


A  POPULAR  FALLACY, 


THAT  A   DEFORMED   PERSON   IS  A   LORD. 

FTER  a  careful  perusal  of  the  most  ap- 
proved works  that  treat  of  nobility,  and 
of  its  origin  in  these  realms  in  particular, 
we  are  left  very  much  in  the  dark  as  to 
the  original  patent  in  which  this  branch  of  it  is  re- 
cognized. Neither  Camden  in  his  "  Etymologic 
and  Original  of  Barons,"  nor  Dugdale  in  his  "  Ba- 
ronage of  England,"  nor  Selden  (a  more  exact  and 
laborious  inquirer  than  either)  in  his  "Titles  of 
Honour,"  afford  a  glimpse  of  satisfaction  upon  the 
subject.  There  is  an  heraldic  term,  indeed,  which 
seems  to  imply  gentility,  and  the  right  to  coat  armour 
(but  nothing  further),  in  persons  thus  qualified. 
But  the  sinister  bend  is  more  probably  interpreted 
by  the  best  writers  on  this  science,  of  some  irregu- 
larity of  birth  than  of  bodily  conformation.  No- 
bility is  either  hereditary  or  by  creation,  commonly 
called  patent.  Of  the  former  kind,  the  title  in 
question  cannot  be,  seeing  that  the  notion  of  it  is 
limited  to  a  personal  distinction  which  does  not 
necessarily  follow  in  the  blood.  Honours  of  this 
nature,  as  Mr.  Anstey  very  well  observes,  descend, 
moreover,  in  a  right  line.     It  must  be  by  patent, 


346  ELIANA. 

then,  if  anything.  But  who  can  show  it  ?  How 
comes  it  to  be  dormant  ?  Under  what  king's  reign 
is  it  patented?  Among  the  grounds  of  nobility 
cited  by  the  learned  Mr.  Ashmole,  after  "  Services 
in  the  Field  or  in  the  Council  Chamber,"  he  ju- 
diciously sets  down  "  Honours  conferred  by  the 
sovereign  out  of  mere  benevolence,  or  as  favouring 
one  subject  rather  than  another  for  some  likeness 
or  conformity  (or  but  supposed)  in  him  to  the  royal 
nature ;  "  and  instances  the  graces  showered  upon 
Charles  Brandon,  who,  "in  his  goodly  person  being 
thought  not  a  little  to  favour  the  port  and  bearing 
of  the  king's  own  majesty,  was  by  that  sovereign, 
King  Henry  the  Eighth,  for  some  or  one  of  these 
respects,  highly  promoted  and  preferred."  Here, 
if  anywhere,  we  thought  we  had  discovered  a  clue 
to  our  researches.  But  after  a  painful  investigation 
of  the  rolls  and  records  under  the  reign  of  Richard 
the  Third,  or  "  Richard  Crouchback,"  as  he  is  more 
usually  designated  in  the  chronicles, — from  a  tra- 
ditionary stoop  or  gibbosity  in  that  part, — we  do 
not  find  that  that  monarch  conferred  any  such 
lordships  as  here  pretended,  upon  any  subject  or 
subjects,  on  a  simple  plea  of  "conformity"  in  that 
respect  to  the  "royal  nature."  The  posture  of 
affairs,  in  those  tumultuous  times  preceding  the 
battle  of  Bosworth,  possibly  left  him  at  no  leisure 
to  attend  to  such  niceties.  Further  than  his  reign, 
we  have  not  extended  our  inquiries  ;  the  kings  of 
England  who  preceded  or  followed  him  being  gene- 
rally described  by  historians  to  have  been  of  straight 
and  clean  limbs,  the  "natural  derivative,"  says 
Daniel,'  "of  high  blood,  if  not  its  primitive  re- 
commendation to  such  ennoblement,  as  denoting 
'  History  of  England,  "Temporibus  Edwardi  Primi  et 
sequentibus." 


A  POPULAR   FALLACY.  347 

strength  and  martial  prowess, — the  qualities  set 
most  by  in  that  fighting  age."  Another  motive, 
which  inclines  us  to  scruple  the  validity  of  this 
claim,  is  the  remarkable  fact,  that  none  of  the 
persons  in  whom  the  right  is  supposed  to  be  vested 
do  ever  insist  upon  it  themselves.  There  is  no  in- 
stance of  any  of  them  "suing  his  patent,"  as  the 
law  books  call  it ;  much  less  of  his  having  actually 
stepped  up  into  his  proper  seat,  as,  so  qualified,  we 
might  expect  that  some  of  them  would  have  had 
the  spirit  to  do,  in  the  House  of  Lords.  On  the 
contrary,  it  seems  to  be  a  distinction  thrust  upon 
them.  "  Their  title  of  '  lord,'  "  says  one  of  their 
own  body,  speaking  of  the  common  people,  "I 
never  much  valued,  and  now  I  entirely  despise ; 
and  yet  they  will  force  it  upon  me  as  an  honour 
which  they  have  a  right  to  bestow,  and  which  I 
have  none  to  refuse."'  Upon  a  dispassionate  re- 
view of  the  subject,  we  are  disposed  to  believe 
that  there  is  no  right  to  the  peerage  incident  to 
mere  bodily  configuration  ;  that  the  title  in  dispute 
is  merely  honorary,  and  depending  upon  the  breath 
of  the  common  people,  which  in  these  realms  is  so 
far  from  the  power  of  conferring  nobility,  that  the 
ablest  constitutionalists  have  agreed  in  nothing 
more  unanimously  than  in  the  maxim,  that  "the 
king  is  the  sole  fountain  of  honour." 

'  Hay  on  Deformity. 


LETTER  TO  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN 
WHOSE  EDUCATION  HAS  BEEN 
NEGLECTED. 


Dear  Sir,— I  send  you  a  bantering  "Epistle  to  an  Old 
Gentleman  whose  Education  is  supposed  to  have  been 
neglected."  Of  course,  it  was  suggested  by  some  letters  of 
your  admirable  Opium-Eater,  the  discontinuance  of  which 
has  caused  so  much  regret  to  myself  in  common  with  most 
of  your  readers.  You  will  do  me  injustice  by  supposing 
that,  in  the  remotest  degree,  it  was  my  intention  to  ridicule 
those  papers.  The  fact  is,  the  most  serious  things  may  give 
rise  to  an  innocent  burlesque ;  and,  the  more  serious  they 
are,  the  fitter  they  become  for  that  purpose.  It  is  not  to  be 
supposed  that  Charles  Cotton  did  not  entertain  a  very  high 
regard  for  Virgil^  notwithstanding  he  travestied  that  poet. 
Yourself  can  testify  the  deep  respect  I  have  always  held  for 
the  profound  learning  and  penetrating  genius  of  our  friend. 
Nothing  upon  earth  would  give  me  greater  pleasure  than 
to  find  that  he  has  not  lost  sight  of  his  entertaining  and  in- 
structive purpose. 

I  am,  dear  sir,  yours  and  his  sincerely, 

Elia. 

Y  DEAR  SIR,— The  question  which 
you  have  done  me  the  honour  to  propose 
to  me,  through  the  medium  of  our  com- 
mon friend,  Mr.  Grierson,  I  shall  en- 
deavour to  answer  w^ith  as  much  exactness  as  a 
limited  observation  and  experience  can  warrant. 


LETTER   TO  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN.     349 

You  ask, — or  rather  Mr.  Grierson,  in  his  own 
interesting  language,  asks  for  you, — "  Whether  a 
person  at  the  age  of  sixty-three,  with  no  more  pro- 
ficiency than  a  tolerable  knowledge  of  most  of  the 
characters  of  the  English  alphabet  at  first  sight 
amounts  to,  by  dint  of  persevering  application  and 
good  masters, — a  docile  and  ingenuous  disposition 
on  the  part  of  the  pupil  always  presupposed, — may 
hope  to  arrive,  within  a  presumable  number  of 
years,  at  that  degree  of  attainments  which  shall 
entitle  the  possessor  to  the  character,  which  you 
are  on  so  many  accounts  justly  desirous  of  ac- 
quiring, oi z.  learned  f nan." 

This  is  fairly  and  candidly  stated, — only  I  could 
wish  that  on  one  point  you  had  been  a  little  more 
explicit.  In  the  mean  time,  I  will  take  it  for 
granted,  that  by  a  "know  edge  of  the  alphabetic 
characters  "  you  confine  your  meaning  to  the  single 
powers  only,  as  you  are  silent  on  the  subject  of  the 
diphthongs  and  harder  combinations. 

Why,  truly,  sir,  when  I  consider  the  vast  circle 
of  sciences, — it  is  not  here  worth  while  to  trouble 
you  with  the  distinction  between  learning  and 
science,  which  a  man  must  be  understood  to 
have  made  the  tour  of  in  these  days,  before  the 
world  will  be  willing  to  concede  to  him  the  title 
which  you  aspire  to, — I  am  almost  disposed  to 
reply  to  your  inquiry  by  a  direct  answer  in  the 
negative. 

However,  where  all  cannot  be  compassed,  a 
great  deal  that  is  truly  valuable  may  be  accom- 
plished. I  am  unwilling  to  throw  out  any  remarks 
that  sliould  have  a  tendency  to  damp  a  hopeful 
genius ;  but  I  must  not,  in  fairness,  conceal  from 
you  that  you  have  much  to  do.  The  consciousness 
of  difficulty  is  sometimes  a  spur  to  exertion.    Rome 


3S0  ELI  ANA. 

— or  rather,  my  dear  sir,  to  borrow  an  illustration 
from  a  place  as  yet  more  familiar  to  you,  Rumford 
— Rumford  was  not  built  in  a  day. 

Your  mind  as  yet,  give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  is 
in  the  state  of  a  sheet  of  white  paper.  We  must 
not  blot  or  blur  it  over  too  hastily.  Or,  to  use  an 
opposite  simile,  it  is  like  a  piece  of  parchment  all 
bescrawled  and  bescribbled  over  with  characters  of 
no  sense  or  import,  which  we  must  carefully  erase 
and  remove  before  we  can  make  way  for  the  au- 
thentic characters  or  impresses  which  are  to  be  sub- 
stituted in  their  stead  by  the  corrective  hand  of 
science. 

Your  mind,  my  dear  sir,  again,  resembles  that 
same  parchment,  which  we  will  suppose  a  little 
hardened  by  time  and  disuse.  We  may  apply  the 
characters ;  but  are  we  sure  that  the  ink  will 
sink? 

You  are  in  the  condition  of  a  traveller  that  has 
all  his  journey  to  begin.  And,  again,  you  are 
worse  off  than  the  traveller  which  I  have  supposed  ; 
for  you  have  already  lost  your  way. 

You  have  much  to  learn,  which  you  have  never 
been  taught ;  and  more,  I  fear,  to  unlearn,  which 
you  have  been  taught  erroneously.  You  have 
hitherto,  I  dare  say,  imagined  that  the  sun  moves 
round  the  earth.  When  you  shall  have  mastered 
the  true  solar  system,  you  will  have  quite  a  diffe- 
rent theory  upon  that  point,  I  assure  you.  I  men- 
tion but  this  instance.  Your  own  experience,  as 
knowledge  advances,  will  furnish  you  with  many 
parallels. 

I  can  scarcely  approve  of  the  intention,  which 
Mr.  Grierson  informs  me  you  have  contemplated, 
of  entering  yourself  at  a  common  seminary,  and 
working  your  way  up  from  the  lower  to  the  higher 


LETTER    TO  AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN.     351 

forms  with  the  children.  I  see  more  to  admire  in 
the  modesty  than  in  the  expediency  of  such  a  reso- 
hition.  I  own  I  cannot  reconcile  myself  to  the 
spectacle  of  a  gentleman  at  your  time  of  life,  seated, 
as  must  be  your  case  at  first,  below  a  tyro  of  four 
or  five ;  for  at  that  early  age  the  rudiments  of 
education  usually  commence  in  this  country.  I 
doubt  whether  more  might  not  be  lost  in  the 
point  of  fitness  than  would  be  gained  in  the  ad- 
vantages which  you  propose  to  yourself  by  this 
scheme. 

You  jay  you  stand  in  need  of  emulation ;  that 
this  incitement  is  nowhere  to  be  had  but  at  a 
public  school;  that  you  should  be  more  sensible 
of  your  progress  by  comparing  it  with  the  daily 
progress  of  those  around  you.  But  have  you  con- 
sidered the  nature  of  emulation,  and  how  it  is 
sustained  at  these  tender  years  which  you  would 
have  to  come  in  competition  with?  I  am  afraid 
you  are  dreaming  of  academic  prizes  and  distinc- 
tions. Alas  !  in  the  university  for  which  you 
are  preparing,  the  highest  medal  would  be  a 
silver  penny  ;  and  you  must  graduate  in  nuts  and 
oranges. 

I  know  that  Peter,  the  Great  Czar— or  Emperor 
— of  Muscovy,  submitted  himself  to  the  discipline 
of  a  dockyard  at  Deptford,  that  he  might  learn, 
and  convey  to  his  countrymen,  the  noble  art  of 
ship-building.  You  are  old  enough  to  remember 
him,  or  at  least  the  talk  about  him.  I  call  to  mind 
also  other  great  princes,  who,  to  instruct  them- 
selves  in  the  theory  and  practice  of  war,  and  set 
an  example  of  subordination  to  their  subjects,  have 
condescended  to  enrol  themselves  as  private  sol- 
diers ;  and,  passing  through  the  successive  ranks  of 
corporal,  quartermaster,  and  the  rest,  have  served 


352  ELIANA. 

their  way  up  to  the  station  at  whidi  most  princes 
are  willing  enough  to  set  out, — of  general  and 
commander-in-chief  over  their  own  forces.  But — 
besides  that  there  is  oftentimes  great  sham  and  pre- 
tence in  their  show  of  mock  humility — the  com- 
petition which  they  stooped  to  was  with  their 
coevals,  however  inferior  to  them  in  birth.  Be- 
tween ages  so  very  disparate  as  those  which  you 
contemplate,  I  fear  there  can  no  salutary  emula- 
lation  subsist. 

Again :  in  the  other  alternative,  could  you  sub- 
mit to  the  ordinary  reproofs  and  discipline  of  a 
day-school?  Could  you  bear  to  be  corrected  for 
your  faults?  Or  how  would  it  look  to  see  you 
put  to  stand,  as  must  be  the  case  sometimes,  in  a 
comer? 

I  am  afraid  the  idea  of  a  public  school  in  your 
circumstances  must  be  given  up. 

But  is  it  impossible,  my  dear  sir,  to  find  some 
person  of  your  own  age,  — if  of  the  other  sex,  the 
more  agreeable,  perhaps, — whose  information,  like 
your  own,  has  rather  lagged  behind  his  years,  who 
should  be  willing  to  set  out  from  the  same  point 
with  yourself ;  to  undergo  the  same  tasks  ? — thus 
at  once  inciting  and  sweetening  each  other's  la- 
bours in  a  sort  of  friendly  rivalry.  Such  a  one,  I 
think,  it  would  not  be  difficult  to  find  in  some  of 
the  western  parts  of  this  island, — about  Dartmoor, 
for  instance. 

Or  what  if,  from  your  own  estate, — that  estate, 
which,  unexpectedly  acquired  so  late  in  life,  has 
inspired  into  you  this  generous  thirst  after  know- 
ledge,— you  were  to  select  some  elderly  peasant, 
that  might  best  be  spared  from  the  land,  to  come 
and  begin  his  education  with  you,  that  you  might 
till,  as  it  were,  your  minds  together, — one  whose 


LETTER    TO   AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN.      353 

heavier  progress  might  invite,  without  a  fear  of 
discouraging,  your  emulation  ?  We  might  then  see 
— starting  from  an  equal  post — the  difference  of  the 
clownish  and  the  gentle  blood. 

A  private  education,  then,  or  such  a  one  as  I 
have  been  describing,  being  determined  on,  we 
must  in  the  next  place  look  out  for  a  preceptor  ; 
for  it  will  be  some  time  before  either  of  you,  left 
to  yourselves,  will  be  able  to  assist  the  other  to  any 
great  purpose  in  his  studies. 

And  now,  my  dear  sir,  if,  in  describing  such  a 
tutor  as  I  have  imagined  for  you,  I  use  a  style 
a  little  above  the  familiar  one  in  which  I  have 
hitherto  chosen  to  address  you,  the  nature  of  the 
subject  must  be  my  apology.  Difficile  est  de  scien- 
iiis  inscienter  loqui ;  which  is  as  much  as  to  say, 
that,  "in  treating  of  scientific  matters,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  avoid  the  use  of  scientific  terms."  But  I 
shall  endeavour  to  be  as  plain  as  possible.  I  am 
not  going  to  present  you  with  the  ideal  of  a  peda- 
gogue as  it  may  exist  in  my  fancy,  or  has  possibly 
been  realized  in  the  persons  of  Buchanan  and 
Busby.  Something  less  than  perfection  will  serve 
our  turn.  The  scheme  which  I  propose  in  this 
first  or  introductory  letter  has  reference  to  the  first 
four  or  five  years  of  your  education  only ;  and  in 
enumerating  the  qualifications  of  him  that  should 
undertake  the  direction  of  your  studies,  I  shall 
rather  point  out  the  j?iimmum,  or  least,  that  I 
shall  require  of  him,  than  trouble  you  in  the  search 
of  attainments  neither  common  nor  necessary  to 
our  immediate  purpose. 

He  should  be  a  man  of  deep  and  extensive  know- 
ledge. So  much  at  least  is  indispensable.  Some- 
thing older  than  yourself,  I  could  wish  him,  be- 
cause years  add  reverence. 

II.  A  A 


354  ELIAN  A. 

To  his  age  and  great  learning,  he  should  be 
blessed  with  a  temper  and  a  patience  willing  to 
accommodate  itself  to  the  imperfections  of  the 
slowest  and  meanest  capacities.  Such  a  one,  in 
former  days,  Mr.  Hartlib  appears  to  have  been  ; 
and  such,  in  our  days,  I  take  Mr.  Grierson  to  be : 
but  our  friend,  you  know,  unhappily,  has  other 
engagements.  I  do  not  demand  a  consummate 
grammarian ;  but  he  must  be  a  thorough  master  of 
vernacular  orthography,  with  an  insight  into  the 
accentualities  and  punctualities  of  modern  Saxon,  or 
English.  He  must  be  competently  instructed  (or 
how  shall  he  instruct  you?)  in  the  tetralogy,  or  four 
first  rales,  upon  which  not  only  arithmetic,  but 
geometry,  and  the  pure  mathematics  themselves, 
are  grounded.  I  do  not  require  that  he  should 
have  measured  the  globe  with  Cook  or  Ortelius ; 
but  it  is  desirable  that  he  should  have  a  general 
knowledge  (I  do  not  mean  a  very  nice  or  pedantic 
one)  of  the  great  division  of  the  earth  into  four 
parts,  so  as  to  teach  you  readily  to'  name  the 
quarters.  He  must  have  a  genius  capable  in  some 
degree  of  soaring  to  the  upper  element,  to  deduce 
from  thence  the  not  much  dissimilar  computation 
of  the  cardinal  points,  or  hinges,  upon  which  those 
invisible  phenomena,  which  naturalists  agree  to 
term  winds,  do  perpetually  shift  and  turn.  He 
must  instruct  you,  in  imitation  of  the  old  Orphic 
fragments  (the  mention  of  which  has  possibly 
escaped  you),  in  numeric  and  harmonious  re- 
sponses, to  deliver  the  number  of  solar  revolutions 
within  which  each  of  the  twelve  periods,  into  which 
the  Annus'Vulgaris,  or  common  year,  is  divided, 
doth  usually  complete  and  terminate  itself.  The 
intercalaries  and  other  subtle  problems  he  will  do 
well  to  omit,  till  riper  years  and  course  of  study 


LETTER    TO   AN  OLD  GENTLEMAN.     355 

shall  have  rendered  you  more  capable  thereof.  He 
must  be  capable  of  embracing  all  histoiy,  so  as, 
from  the  countless  myriads  of  individual  men  who 
have  peopled  this  globe  of  earth, — -for  it  is  a  globe, 
— by  comparison  of  their  respective  births,  lives, 
deaths,  fortunes,  conduct,  prowess,  &c.,  to  pro- 
nounce, and  teach  you  to  pronounce,  dogmatically 
and  catechetically,  who  was  the  richest,  who  was 
the  strongest,  who  was  the  wisest,  who  was  the 
meekest,  man  that  ever  lived ;  to  the  facilitation  of 
which  solution,  you  will  readily  conceive,  a  smat- 
tering of  biography  would  in  no  inconsiderable 
degree  conduce.  Leaving  the  dialects  of  men  (in 
one  of  which  I  shall  take  leave  to  suppose  you  by 
this  time  at  least  superficially  instituted),  you  will 
learn  to  ascend  with  him  to  the  contemplation  of 
that  unai  ticulated  language  which  was  before  the 
written  tongue ;  and,  with  the  aid  of  the  elder 
Phrygian  or  ^sopic  key,  to  interpret  the  sounds 
by  which  the  animal  tribes  communicate  their 
minds,  evolving  moral  instruction  with  delight  from 
the  dialogue  of  cocks,  dogs,  and  foxes.  Or,  mar- 
rying theology  with  verse,  from  whose  mixture  a 
beautiful  and  healthy  offspring  may  be  expected, 
in  your  own  native  accents  (but  purified),  you  will 
keep  time  together  to  the  profound  harpings  of  the 
more  modern  or  Wattsian  hymnics. 

Thus  far  I  have  ventured  to  conduct  you  to  a 
"hill-side,  whence  you  may  discern  the  right  path 
of  a  virtuous  and  noble  eduoation  ;  laborious,  in- 
deed, at  the  first  ascent,  but  else  so  smooth,  so 
green,  so  full  of  goodly  prospects  and  melodious 
sounds  on  every  side,  that  the  harp  of  Orpheus 
was  not  more  charming."' 

'Milton's  "Tractate  on  Education,"  addressed  to  Mr. 
Hartlib. 


356 


ELI  AN  A. 


With  my  best  respects  to  Mr.  Grierson,  when 
you  see  him, 

I  remain,  dear  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

Elia. 


ON   THE   AMBIGUITIES   ARISING 
FROM   PROPER   NAMES. 

1 0  W  oddly  it  happens  that  the  same  sound 
shall  suggest  to  the  minds  of  two  per- 
sons hearing  it  ideas  the  most  opposite ! 
,^^,,,^,  I  was  conversing,  a  few  years  since,  with 
a  young  friend  upon  the  subject  of  poetry,  and  par- 
ticularly that  species  of  it  which  is  known  by  the 
name  of  the  epithalamium.  I  ventured  to  assert 
that  the  most  perfect  specimen  of  it  in  our  language 
was  the  "Epithalamium  "  of  Spenser  upon  his  own 
marriage. 

My  young  gentleman,  who  has  a  smattermg  ot 
taste,  and  would  not  willingly  be  thought  ignorant 
of  anything  remotely  connected  with  the  belles- 
lettres,  expressed  a  degree  of  surprise,  mixed  with 
mortification,  that  he  should  never  have  heard  of 
this  poem ;  Spenser  being  an  author  with  whose 
writings  he  thought  himself  peculiarly  conversant. 

I  offered  to  show  him  the  poem  in  the  fine  foho 
copy  of  the  poet's  works  which  I  have  at  home. 
He  seemed  pleased  with  the  offer,  though  the  men- 
tion of  the  folio  seemed  again  to  puzzle  him.  But, 
presently  after,  assuming  a  grave  look,  he  com^- 
passionately  muttered  to  himself,  "Poor  Spencer! 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  with  which  he 


358  ELIANA. 

spoke  these  words  that  struck  me  not  a  little.  It 
was  more  like  the  accent  with  which  a  maajbe- 
moans  some  recent  calamity  that  has  happeflm  to 
a  friend,  than  that  tone  of  sober  grief  with  which 
we  lament  the  sorrows  of  a  person,  however  excel- 
lent and  however  giievous  his  afflictions  may  have 
been,  who  has  been  dead  more  than  two  centuries. 
I  had  the  curiosity  to  inquire  into  the  reasons  of  so 
uncommon  an  ejaculation.  My  young  gentleman, 
with  a  more  solemn  tone  of  pathos  than  before, 
repeated,  "  Poor  Spencer  ! "  and  added,  "  He  has 
lost  his  wife  !  " 

My  astonishment  at  this  assertion  rose  to  such  a 
height,  that  I  began  to  think  the  brain  of  my  young 
friend  must  be  cracked,  or  some  unaccountable 
reverie  had  gotten  possession  of  it.  But,  upon 
further  explanation,  it  appeared  that  the  word 
"Spenser" — which  to  you  or  me,  reader,  in  a 
conversation  upon  poetry  too,  would  naturally 
have  called  up  the  idea  of  an  old  poet  in  a  ruff, 
one  Edmund  Spenser,  that  flourished  in  the  days 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  wrote  a  poem  called 
"The  Fairy  Queen,"  with  "The  Shepherd's 
Calendar,"  and  many  more  verses  besides — did,  in 
the  mind  of  my  young  friend,  excite  a  very  dif- 
ferent and  quite  modern  idea  ;  namely,  that  of  the 
Honourable  William  Spencer,  one  of  the  living 
ornaments,  if  I  am  not  misinformed,  of  this  pre- 
sent poetical  era,  a.d.  i8h. 


ELIA  ON  HIS  "CONFESSIONS  OF  A 
D-RUNKARD." 

ANY  are  the  sayings  of  Elia,  painful 
and  frequent  his  lucubrations,  set  forth 
for  the  most  part  (such  his  modesty  j) 
..^.^  ,„^..  without  a  name;  scattered  about  in 
obscure  periodicals  and  forgotten  miscellanies, 
P>om  the  dust  of  some  of  these  it  is  our  intention 
occasionally  to  revive  a  tract  or  two  that  shall 
seem  worthy  of  a  better  fate,  especially  at  a  time 
like  the  present,  when  the  pen  of  our  industrious 
contributor,  engaged  in  a  laborious  digest  of  his 
recent  Continental  tour,  may  haply  want  the  leisure 
to  expatiate  in  more  miscellaneous  speculations. 
We  have  been  induced,  in  the  first  instance,  to 
reprint  a  thing  which  he  put  forth  in  a  friend's 
volume  some  years  since,  entitled  "The  Con- 
fessions of  a  Drunkard,"  seeing  that  Messieurs  the 
Quarterly  Reviewers  have  chosen  to  embellish 
their  last  dry  pages  with  fruitful  quotations  there- 
from ;  adding,  from  their  peculiar  brains,  the  gra- 
tuitous affirmation,  that  they  have  reason  to  believe 
that  the  describer  (in  his  delineations  of  a  drunkard, 
forsooth  !)  partly  sat  for  his  own  picture.  The 
truth  is,  that  our  friend  had  been  reading  among 
the  essays  of  a  contemporary,  who  has  perversely 


36o  EL  I  AN  A. 

been  confounded  with  him,  a  paper,  in  which  Edax 
(or  the  Great  Eater)  humorously  complaineth  of 
an  inordinate  appetite;  and  it  struck  him  tMt  a 
better  paper — of  deeper  interest  and  wider  useful- 
ness— might  be  made  out  of  the  imagined  expe- 
riences of  a  Great  Drinker.  Accordingly  he  set  to 
work,  and  with  that  mock  fervour  and  counterfeit 
earnestness  with  which  he  is  too  apt  to  over-realize 
his  descriptions,  has  given  us — a  frightful  picture 
indeed,  but  no  more  resembling  the  man  Elia  than 
the  fictitious  Edax  may  be  supposed  to  identify 
itself  with  Mr.  L.,  its  author.  It  is,  indeed,  a 
compound  extracted  out  of  his  long  observations  of 
the  effects  of  drinking  upon  all  the  world  about 
him  ;  and  this  accumulated  mass  of  misery  he  hath 
centred  (as  the  custom  is  with  judicious  essayists) 
in  a  single  figure.  We  deny  not  that  a  portion 
of  his  own  experiences  may  have  passed  into  the 
picture  (as  who,  that  is  not  a  washy  fellow,  but 
must  at  some  times  have  felt  the  after-operation  of 
a  too-generous  cup?);  but  then  how  heightened  ! 
how  exaggerated  !  how  little  within  the  sense  of 
the  Review,  where  a  part,  in  their  slanderous  usage, 
r*ust  be  understood  to  stand  for  the  whole  !  But 
it  is  useless  to  expostulate  with  this  Quarterly 
slime,  brood  of  Nilus,  watery  heads  with  hearts  of 
jelly,  spawned  under  the  sign  of  Aquarius,  inca- 
pable of  Bacchus,  and  therefrom  cold,  washy,  spite- 
ful, bloodless.  Elia  shall  string  them  up  one  day, 
and  show  their  colours, — or,  rather  how  colourless 
and  vapid  the  whole  fry, — when  he  putteth  forth 
his  long-promised,  but  unaccountably  hitherto  de- 
layed,  "  Confessions  of  a  Water-drinker. " 


THE   LAST   PEACIL 


AM  the  miserablest  man  living.  Give 
me  counsel,  dear  Editor.  I  was  bred 
up  in  the  strictest  principles  of  honesty, 
and  have  passed  my  life  in  punctual 
adherence  to  them.  Integrity  might  be  said  to  be 
ingrained  in  our  family.  Yet  I  live  in  constant 
fear  of  one  day  coming  to  the  gallows. 

Till  the  latter  end  of  last  autumn,  I  never  ex- 
perienced these  feelings  of  self-mistrust,  which 
ever  since  have  embittered  my  existence.  From 
the  apprehension  of  that  unfortunate  man,'  whose 
story  began  to  make  so  great  an  impression  upon 
the  public  about  that  time,  I  date  my  horrors.  I 
never  can  get  it  out  of  my  head  that  I  shall  some 
time  or  other  commit  a  forgery,  or  do  some  equally 
vile  thing.  To  make  matters  worse,  I  am  in  a 
banking-house.  I  sit  surrounded  with  a  cluster 
of  bank-notes.  These  were  formerly  no  more  to 
me  than  meat  to  a  butcher's  dog.  They  are  now 
as  toads  and  aspics.  I  feel  all  day  like  one  situated 
amidst  gins  and  pitfalls.  Sovereigns,  which  I  once 
took  such  pleasure  in  counting  out,  and  scraping  up 
with  my  little  tin  shovel  (at  which  I  was  the  most 

'  Fauntleroy. 


362  ELI  ANA. 

expert  in  the  banking-house),  now  scald  my  hands. 
When  I  go  to  sign  my  name,  I  set  down  that  of 
another  person  or  write  my  own  in  a  counterfeit 
character.  I  am  beset  with  temptations  without 
motive.  I  want  no  more  wealth  than  I  possess, 
A  more  contented  being  than  myself,  as  to  money 
matters,  exists  not.     What  should  I  fear  ? 

When  a  child,  I  was  once  let  loose,  by  favour 
of  a  nobleman's  gardener,  into  his  lordship's  mag- 
nificent fruit-garden,  with  full  leave  to  pull  the 
currants  and  the  gooseberries :  only  I  was  inter- 
dicted from  touching  the  wall-fruit.  Indeed,  at 
that  season  (it  was  the  end  of  autumn),  there  was 
little  left.  Only  on  the  south  wall  (can  I  forget  the  hot 
feel  of  the  brick- work?)  lingered  the  one  last  peach. 
Now,  peaches  are  a  fruit  which  I  always  had,  and 
still  have,  an  almost  utter  aversion  to.  There  is 
something  to  my  palate  singularly  harsh  and  re- 
pulsive in  the  flavour  of  them.  I  know  not  by 
what  demon  of  contradiction  inspired,  but  I  was 
haunted  with  an  irresistible  desire  to  pluck  it. 
Tear  myself  as  often  as  I  would  from  tlie  spot,  I 
found  myself  still  recurring  to  it ;  till,  maddening 
with  desire  (desire  I  cannot  call  it),  with  wilful- 
ness rather, — without  appetite, — against  appetite, 
I  may  call  it, — in  an  evil  hour  I  reached  out  my 
hand,  and  plucked  it.  Some  few  raindrops  just 
then  fell ;  the  sky  (from  a  bright  day)  became 
overcast ;  and  I  was  a  type  of  our  first  parents, 
after  the  eating  of  that  fatal  fruit.  I  felt  myself 
naked  and  ashamed,  stripped  of  my  virtue,  spiritless. 
The  downy  fruit,  whose  sight  rather  than  savour 
had  tempted  me,  dropped  from  my  hand  never  to 
be  tasted.  All  the  commentators  in  the  world 
cannot  persuade  me  but  that  the  Hebrew  word,  in 
the  second  chapter  of  Genesis,  translated  "apple," 


THE  LAST  PEACH.  3^3 

should  be  rendered  "  peach."  Only  this  way  can 
I  reconcile  that  mysterious  story. 

Just  such  a  child  at  thirty  am  I  among  the  cash 
and  valuables,  longing  to  pluck,  without  an  idea  of 
enjoyment  further.  I  cannot  reason  myself  out  of 
these  fears  :  I  dare  not  laugh  at  them.  I  was  ten- 
derly and  lovingly  brought  up.    What  then  ?    Who 

that  in  life's  entrance  had  seen  the  babe  F , 

from  the  lap  stretching  out  his  little  fond  mouth  to 
catch  the  maternal  kiss,  could  have  predicted,  or 
as  much  as  imagined,  that  life's  very  different  exit  ? 
The  sight  of  my  own  fingers  torments  me  ;  they 
seem  so  admirably  constructed  for — pilfering. 
Then  that  jugular  vein  which  I  have  iri  common 

;  in  an  emphatic  sense  may  I  say  with  David, 

I  am  "  fearfully  made."  All  my  mirth  is  poisoned 
by  these  unhappy  suggestions.  If,  to  dissipate  re- 
flection, I  hum  a  tune,  it  changes  to  the  "  Lamenta- 
tions of  a  Sinner."  My  very  dreams  are  tainted. 
I  awake  with  a  shocking  feeling  of  my  hand  in 
some  pocket. 

Advise  me,  dear  Editor,  on  this  painful  heart - 
malady.  Tell  me,  do  you  feel  anything  allied  to 
it  in  yourself?  Do  you  never  feel  an  itching,  as  it 
were, — a  dadylomania, — or  am  I  alone  ?  You 
have  my  honest  confession.  My  next  may  appear 
from  Bow  Street  Suspensurus. 


REFLECTIONS   IN  THE   PILLORY. 


About  the  year  i8— ,  one  R d,  a  respectable  London 

merchant  (since  dead),  stood  in  the  pillory  for  some  alleged 
fraud  upon  the  revenue.  Among  his  papers  were  found  the 
following  "  Reflections,"  which  we  have  obtained  by  favour 
of  our  friend  Elia,  who  knew  him  well,  and  had  heard  him 
describe  the  train  of  his  feelings,  upon  that  trying  occasion, 
almost  in  the  words  of  the  manuscript.  Elia  speaks  of  him 
as  a  man  (with  the  exception  of  the  peccadillo  aforesaid)  of 
singular  integrity  in  all  his  private  dealings,  possessing  great 
suavity  of  manner,  with  a  certain  turn  for  humour.  As  our 
object  is  to  present  human  nature  under  every  possible  cir- 
cumstance, we  do  not  think  that  we  shall  sully  our  pages  by 
inserting  it. — Editor. 


Scene, — Ofpcsite  the  Royal  Exchange. 
Time, — Twelve  to  One,  Noon. 


I  ETCH,  my  good  fellow,  you  have  a  neat 
hand.  Prithee  adjust  this  new  collar  to 
my  neck  gingerly.  I  am  not  used  to 
these  wooden  cravats.  There,  softly, 
softly.  That  seems  the  exact  point  between  orna- 
ment and  strangulation.  A  thought  looser  on  this 
side.  Now  it  will  do.  And  have  a  care,  in  turning 
me,  that  I  present  my  aspect  due  vertically.  I  now 
face  the  orient.     In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  shift 


REFLECTIONS  IN  THE  PILLORY.        365 

southward, — do  you  mind? — and  so  on  till  I  face 
the  east  again,  travelling  with  the  sun.  No  half- 
points,  I  beseech  you, — N.N.  by  W.,  or  any  such 
elaborate  niceties.  They  become  the  shipman's 
card,  but  not  this  mystery.  Now  leave  me  a  little 
to  my  own  reflections. 

Bless  us,  what  a  company  is  assembled  in  honour 
of  me  !  How  grand  I  stand  here  !  I  never  felt  so 
sensibly  before  the  effect  of  solitude  in  a  crowd.  I 
muse  in  solemn  silence  upon  that  vast  miscellaneous 
rabble  in  the  pit  there.  From  my  private  box  I 
contemplate,  with  mingled  pity  and  wonder,  the 
gaping  curiosity  of  those  underlings.  There  are 
my  Whitechapel  supporters.  Rosemary  Lane  has 
emptied  herself  of  the  very  flower  of  her  citizens  to 
grace  my  show.  Duke's  Place  sits  desolate.  What 
is  there  in  my  face,  that  strangers  should  come  so 
far  from  the  east  to  gaze  upon  it  ?  \Here  an  egg 
narrowly  ftiisses  him.\  That  offering  was  M'cU 
meant,  but  not  so  cleanly  executed.  By  the  trick- 
lings,  it  should  not  be  either  myrrh  or  frankincense. 
Spare  your  presents,  my  friends  :  I  am  noways 
mercenary.  I  desire  no  missive  tokens  of  your  ap- 
probation. I  am  past  those  valentines.  Bestow 
these  coffins  of  untimely  chickens  upon  mouths  that 
water  for  them.  Comfort  your  addle  spouses  with 
them  at  home,  and  stop  the  mouths  of  your  braw- 
ling brats  with  such  Olla  Podridas  :  they  have  need 
of  them.  S^A  hick  is  let  fly. "[  Disease  not,  I  pray 
you,  nor  dismantle  your  rent  and  ragged  tenements, 
to  furnish  me  with  architectural  decorations,  which. 
I  can  excuse.  This  fragment  might  have  stopped 
a  flaw  against  snow  comes.  \A  coal  flies  .^  Cinders 
are  dear,  gentlemen.  This  nubbling  might  have 
helped  the  pot  boil,  when  your  dirty  cuttings  from 
the  shambles  at  three-ha'pence  a  pound  shall  stand 


366  ELI  ANA. 

at  a  cold  simmer.     Now,  south  about,  Ketch.     I 
would  enjoy  Australian  popularity. 

What,  my  friends  from  over  the  water  !  Old 
benchers — flies  of  a  day — ephemeral  Romans — 
welcome  !  Doth  the  sight  of  me  draw  souls  from 
limbo  ?     Can  it  dispeople  purgatory  ? — Ha  ! 

What  am  I,  or  what  was  my  father's  house,  that 
I  should  thus  be  set  up  a  spectacle  to  gentlemen 
and  others  ?  Why  are  all  faces,  like  Persians  at  the 
sunrise,  bent  singly  on  mine  alone  ?  It  was  wont 
to  be  esteemed  an  ordinary  visnomy,  a  quotidian 
merely.  Doubtless  these  assembled  myriads  discern 
some  traits  of  nobleness,  gentility,  breeding,  which 
hitherto  have  escaped  the  common  observation, — 
some  intimations,  as  it  were,  of  wisdom,  valour, 
piety,  and  so  forth.  My  sight  dazzles  ;  and,  if  I 
am  not  deceived  by  the  too  familiar  pressure  of 
this  strange  neckcloth  that  envelops  it,  my  coun- 
tenance gives  out  lambent  glories.  For  some 
painter  now  to  take  me  in  the  lucky  point  of  ex- 
pression ! — the  posture  so  convenient  .'—the  head 
never  shifting,  but  standing  quiescent  in  a  sort  of 
natural  frame.  But  these  artisans  require  a  westerly 
aspect.     Ketch,  turn  me. 

Something  of  St.  James's  air  in  these  my  new 
friends.  How  my  prospects  shift  and  brighten  ! 
Now,  if  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  be  anywhere  in 
that  group,  his  fortune  is  made  for  ever.  I  think 
I  see  some  one  taking  out  a  crayon.  I  will  com- 
pose my  whole  face  to  a  smile,  which  yet  shall  not 
so  predominate  but  that  gravity  and  gaiety  shall 
contend,  as  it  were, — you  understand  me?  I  will 
work  up  my  thoughts  to  some  mild  rapture, — a 
gentle  enthusiasm, — which  the  artist  may  transfer, 
in  a  manner,  warm  to  the  canvas.  I  will  inwardly 
apostrophize  my  tabernacle. 


REFLkCTlONS  IN  THE  PILLORY.        367 

Delectable  mansion,  hail !  House  not  made  of 
every  wood  !  Lodging  that  pays  no  rent ;  airy  and 
commodious ;  which,  owing  no  window-tax,  art 
yet  all  casement,  out  of  which  men  have  such 
pleasure  in  peering  and  overlooking,  that  they  will 
sometimes  stand  an  hour  together  to  enjoy  thy 
prospects  !  Cell,  recluse  from  the  vulgar  !  Quiet 
retirement  from  the  great  Babel,  yet  affording  suffi- 
cient glimpses  into  it  !  Pulpit,  that  instructs  with- 
out note  or  sermon-book  ;  into  which  the  preacher 
is  inducted  without  tenth  or  first-fruit  !  Throne, 
unshared  and  single,  that  disdainest  a  Brentford 
competitor  !  Honour  without  co-rival !  Or  hearest 
thou,  rather,  magnificent  theatre,  in  which  the 
spectator  comes  to  see  and  to  be  seen  ?  From  thy 
giddy  heights  I  look  down  upon  the  common  herd, 
who  stand  with  eyes  upturned,  as  if  a  winged  mes- 
senger hovered  over  them  ;  and  mouths  open,  as  if 
they  expected  manna.  I  feel,  I  feel,  the  true  epis- 
copal yearnings.  Behold  in  me,  my  flock,  your 
true  overseer  !  What  though  I  cannot  lay  hands, 
liecause  my  own  are  laid ;  yet  I  can  mutter  bene- 
dictions. True  otiiim  cum  dignitate  !  Proud  Pisgah 
eminence  !  pinnacle  sublime  !  O  Pillory  !  'tis  thee 
I  sing  !  Thou  younger  brother  to  the  gallows, 
without  his  rough  and  Esau  palms,  th-at  with  in- 
effable contempt  surveyest  beneath  thee  the  gro- 
velling stocks,  which  claim  presumptuously  to  be 
of  thy  great  race  !  Let  that  low  wood  know  that 
thou  art  far  higher  born.  Let  that  domicile  for 
groundling  rogues  and  base  earth-kissing  varlets 
envy  thy  preferment,  not  seldom  fated  to  be  the 
wanton  baiting-house,  the  temporary  retreat,  of 
poet  and  of  patriot.  Shades  of  Bastwick  and  of 
Prynne  hover  over  thee, — Defoe  is  there,  and  more 
greatly  daring  Shebbeare,— from  their  (little  more 


368  ELI  ANA 

elevated)  stations  they  look  down  with  recognitions. 
Ketch,  turn  me. 

I  now  veer  to  the  north.  Open  your  widest 
gates,  thou  proud  Exchange  of  London,  that  I  may 
look  in  as  proudly  !  Gresham's  wonder,  hail  !  I 
stand  upon  a  level  with  all  your  kings.  They  and 
I,  from  equal  heights,  with  equal  superciliousness, 
o'erlook  the  plodding  money-hunting  tribe  below, 
who,  busied  in  their  sordid  speculations,  scarce 
elevate  their  eyes  to  notice  your  ancient,  or  my 
recent,  grandeur.  The  second  Charles  smiles  on 
me  from  three  pedestals  ! '  He  closed  the  Ex- 
chequer :  I  cheated  the  Excise.  Equal  our  darings, 
equal  be  our  lot. 

Are  those  the  quarters?  'tis  their  fatal  chime. 
That  the  ever-winged  hours  would  but  stand  still  ! 
but  I  must  descend, — descend  from  this  dream  of 
greatness.  Stay,  stay,  a  little  while,  importunate 
hour-hand  !  A  moment  or  two,  and  I  shall  walk 
on  foot  with  the  undistinguished  many.  The  clock 
speaks  one.  I  return  to  common  life.  Ketch,  let 
me  out. 

'  A  statue  of  Charles  II.,  by  the  elder  Cibber,  adorns 
the  front  of  the  Exchange.  He  stands  also  on  high,  in  the 
train  of  his  crowned  ancestors,  in  his  proper  order,  -jiithin 
that  building.  But  the  merchants  of  London,  in  a  superfe- 
tation  of  loyalty,  have,  within  a  few  years,  caused  to  bfi 
erected  another  effigy  of  him  on  the  ground  in  the  centre  p£ 
the  interior.  We  do  not  hear  that  a  fourth  is  in  contem- 
plation. 


CUPID'S   REVENGE. 


EONTIUS,  DukeofLycia,  who  in  times 
past  had  borne  the  character  of  a  wise 
and  just  governor,  and  was  endeared  to 
TeJ  all  ranks  of  his  subjects,  in  his  latter 
days  fell  into  a  sort  of  dotage,  which  manifested 
itself  in  an  extravagant  fondness  for  his  daughter 
Hidaspes.  This  young  maiden,  with  the  Prince 
Leucippus,  her  brother,  were  the  only  remembrances 
left  to  him  of  a  deceased  and  beloved  consort.  For 
Aer,  nothing  was  thought  too  precious.  Existence 
was  of  no  value  to  him  but  as  it  afforded  .oppor- 
tunities of  gratifying  her  wishes.  To  be  instru- 
mental in  relieving  her  from  the  least  little  pain  or 
grief,  he  would  have  lavished  his  treasures  to  the 
giving  away  of  the  one-half  of  his  dukedom. 

All  this  deference  on  the  part  of  the  parent  had 
yet  no  power  upon  the  mind  of  the  daughter  to 
move  her  at  any  time  to  solicit  any  unbecoming 
suit,  or  to  disturb  the  even  tenor  of  her  thoughts. 
The  humility  and  dutifulness  of  her  carriage  seemed 
to  keep  pace  with  his  apparent  willingness  to  re- 
lease her  from  the  obligations  of  either.  She  might 
have  satisfied  her  wildest  humours  and  caprices ; 
but,  in  truth,  no  such  troublesome  guests  found 
harbour  in  the  bosom  of  the  quiet  and  unaspiring 
maiden. 


370  ELIANA. 

Thus  far  the  prudence  of  the  princess  served  to 
counteract  any  ill  effects  which  this  ungovernable 
partiality  in  a  parent  was  calculated  to  produce  in 
a  less  virtuous  nature  than  Hidaspes' ;  and  this 
foible  of  the  duke's,  so  long  as  no  evil  resulted 
from  it,  was  passed  over  by  the  courtiers  as  a  piece 
of  harmless  frenzy. 

But  upon  a  solemn  day, — a  sad  one,  as  it  proved 
for  Lycia, — when  the  returning  anniversary  of  the 
princess's  birth  was  kept  with  extraordinary  re- 
joicings, the  infatuated  father  set  no  bounds  to  his 
folly,  but  would  have  his  subjects  to  do  homage  to 
her  for  that  day,  as  to  their  natural  sovereign  ;  as 
if  he,  indeed,  had  been  dead,  and  she,  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  the  male  succession,  was  become  the 
rightful  ruler  of  Lycia.  He  saluted  her  by  the  style 
of  Duchess ;  and  with  a  terrible  oath,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  his  nobles,  he  confirmed  to  her  the  grant 
of  all  things  whatsoever  that  she  should  demand  on 
that  day,  and  for  the  six  next  following  ;  and  if  she 
should  ask  anything,  the  execution  of  which  must 
be  deferred  until  after  his  death,  he  pronounced  a 
dreadful  curse  upon  his  son  and  successor,  if  he 
failed  to  see  to  the  performance  of  it. 

Thus  encouraged,  the  princess  stepped  forth  with 
a  modest  boldness  ;  and,  as  if  assured  of  no  denial, 
spake  as  follows. 

But,  before  we  acquaint  you  with  the  purport  of 
her  speech,  we  must  premise,  that  in  the  land  of 
Lycia,  which  was  at  that  time  pagan,  above  all 
their  other  gods  the  inhabitants  did  in  an  especial 
manner  adore  the  deity  who  was  supposed  to  have 
influence  in  the  disposing  of  people's  affections  in 
love.  Him,  by  the  name  of  God  Cupid,  they 
feigned  to  be  a  beautiful  boy,  and  winged ;  as  in- 
deed, between  young  persons,  these  frantic  passions 


CUPID'S  REVENGE.  371 

are  usually  least  under  constraint ;  while  the  wings 
might  signify  the  haste  with  which  these  ill-judged 
attachments  are  commonly  dissolved,  and  do  indeed 
go  away  as  lightly  as  they  come,  flymg  away  in  an 
instant  to  light  upon  some  newer  fancy.  They 
painted  him  blindfolded,  because  these  silly  affec- 
tions of  lovers  make  them  blind  to  the  defects  of 
the  beloved  object,  which  every  one  is  quick- 
sighted  enough  to  discover  but  themselves  ;  or  be- 
cause love  is  for  the  most  part  led  blindly,  rather 
than  directed  by  the  open  eye  of  the  judgment,  in 
the  hasty  choice  of  a  mate.  Yet  with  that  incon- 
sistency of  attributes  with  which  the  heathen  people 
commonly  over-complimented  their  deities,  this 
blind  love,  this  Cupid,  they  figured  with  a  bow 
and  arrows ;  and,  being  sightless,  they  yet  feigned 
him  to  be  a  notable  archer  and  an  unerring  marks- 
man. No  heart  was  supposed  to  be  proof  against  ■ 
the  point  of  his  inevitable  dart.  By  such  incredible 
fictions  did  these  poor  pagans  make  a  shift  to  excuse 
their  vanities,  and  to  give  a  sanction  to  their  ir- 
regular affections,  under  the  notion  that  love  was 
irresistible  ;  whereas,  in  a  well-regulated  mind, 
these  amorous  conceits  either  find  no  place  at  all, 
or,  having  gained  a  footing,  are  easily  stifled  in  the 
beginning  by  a  wise  and  manly  resolution. 

This  frenzy  in  the  people  had  long  been  a  source 
of  disquiet  to  the  discreet  princess  ;  and  many  were 
the  conferences  she  had  held  with  the  virtuous 
prince,  her  brother,  as  to  the  best  mode  of  taking 
off  the  minds  of  the  Lycians  from  this  vain  super- 
stition. An  occasion,  furnished  by  the  blind  grant 
of  the  old  duke,  their  father,  seemed  now  to  present 
itself. 

The  courtiers  then,  being  assembled  to  hear  the 
demand  which  the  princess  should  make,  began  to 


37a  ELI  AN  A. 

conjecture,  each  one  according  to  the  bent  of  his 
own  disposition,  what  the  thing  would  be  that  she 
should  ask  for.  One  said,  "  Now  surely  she  will 
as,k  to  have  the  disposal  of  the  revenues  of  some 
wealthy  province,  to  lay  them  out — as  was  the 
manner  of  Eastern  princesses — in  costly  dresses 
and  jewels  becoming  a  lady  of  so  great  expectan- 
cies." Another  thought  that  she  would  seek  an 
extension  of  power,  as  women  naturally  love  rule 
and  dominion.  But  the  most  part  were  in  hope 
that  she  was  about  to  beg  the  hand  of  some  neigh- 
bouring prince  in  marriage,  who,  by  the  wealth 
and  contiguity  of  his  dominions,  might  add  strength 
and  safety  to  the  realm  of  Lycia.  But  in  none  of 
these  things  was  the  expectation  of  these 'crafty  and 
worldly-minded  courtiers  gratified ;  for  Hidaspes, 
first  making  lowly  obeisance  to  her  father,  and 
thanking  him  on  bended  knees  for  so  great  grace 
conferred  upon  her, — according  to  a  plan  precon- 
certed with  Leucippus, — made  suit  as  follows  : — 

"Your  loving  care  of  me,  O  princely  father  !  by 
which  in  my  tenderest  age  you  made  up  to  me  for 
the  loss  of  a  mother  at  those  years  when  I  was 
scarcely  able  to  comprehend  the  misfortune,  and 
your  bounties  to  me  ever  since,  have  left  me  no- 
thing to  ask  for  myself,  as  wanting  and  desiring 
nothing.  But,  for  the  people  whom  you  govern,  I 
beg  and  desire  a  boon.  It  is  known  to  all  nations, 
that  the  men  of  Lycia  are  noted  for  a  vain  and 
fruitless  superstition, — the  more  hateful  as  it  bears 
a  show  of  true  religion,  but  is  indeed  nothing  more 
than  a  self-pleasing  and  bold  wantonness.  Many 
ages  before  this,  when  every  man  had  taken  to 
himself  a  trade,  as  hating  idleness  far  worse  than 
death,  some  one  that  gave  himself  to  sloth  and 
wine,   finding  himself  by  his  neighbours  rebuked 


CUPIDS  REVENGE.  373 

for  his  unprofitable  life,  framed  to  himself  a  god, 
whom  he  pretended  to  obey  in  his  dishonesty  ;  and, 
for  a  name,  he  called  him  Cupid.  This  god  of 
merely  man's  creating — as  the  nature  of  man  is 
ever  credulous  of  any  vice  which  takes  part  with 
his  di'-solute  conditions — quickly  found  followers 
enough.  They  multiplied  in  every  age,  especially 
among  your  Lycians,  who  to  this  day  remain 
adorers  of  this  drowsy  deity,  who  certainly  was 
first  invented  in  drink,  as  sloth  and  luxury  are  com- 
monly the  first  movers  in  these  idle  love-passions. 
This  winged  boy — for  so  they  fancy  him — has  his 
sacrifices,  his  loose  images  set  up  in  the  land, 
through  all  the  villages ;  nay,  your  own  sacred 
palace  is  not  exempt  from  them,  to  the  scandal  of 
sound  devotion,  and  dishonour  of  the  true  deities, 
which  are  only  they  who  give  good  gifts  to  man, — 
as  Ceres,  who  gives  us  corn  ;  the  planter  of  the 
olive,  Pallas;  Neptune,  who  directs  the  track  of 
ships  over  the  great  ocean,  and  binds  distant  lands 
together  in  friendly  commerce  ;  the  inventor  of  me- 
dicine and  music,  Apollo ;  and  the  cloud-compel- 
ling Thunderer  of  Olympus :  whereas  the  gifts  of 
this  idle  deity — if  indeed  he  have  a  being  at  all 
out  of  the  brain  of  his  frantic  worshippers — usually 
prove  destructive  and  pernicious.  My  suit,  then, 
is,  that  this  unseemly  idol  throughout  the  land  be 
plucked  down,  and  cast  into  the  fire  ;  and  that  the 
adoring  of  the  same  may  be  prohibited  on  pain  of 
death  to  any  of  your  subjects  henceforth  found  so 
offending." 

Leontius,  startled  at-  this  unexpected  demand 
frqm  the  princess,  with  tears  besought  her  to  ask 
some  wiser  thing,  and  not  to  bring  down  upon  her- 
self and  him  the  indignation  of  so  great  a  god. 

"  There  is  no  such  god  as  you  dream  of,"  said 


374  ELIANA. 

then  Leucippus,  boldly,  who  had  hitherto  forborne 
to  second  the  petition  of  the  princess ;  "  but  a  vain 
opinion  of  him  has  filled  the  land  with  love  and 
wantonness.  Every  young  man  and  maiden,  that 
feel  the  least  desire  to  one  another,  dare  in  no  case 
to  suppress  it ;  for  they  think  it  to  be  Cupid's  mo- 
tion, and  that  he  is  a  god  !" 

Thus  pressed  by  the  solicitations  of  both  his  chil- 
dren, and  fearing  the  oath  which  he  had  taken,  in 
an  evil  hour  the  misgiving  father  consented  ;  and  a 
proclamation  was  sent  throughout  all  the  provinces 
for  the  putting-down  of  the  idol,  and  the  suppression 
of  the  established  Cupid-worship. 

Notable,  you  may  be  sure,  was  the  stir  made  in 
all  places  among  the  priests,  and  among  the  arti- 
ficers in  gold,  in  silver,  or  in  marble,  who  made  a 
gainful  trade,  either  in  serving  at  the  altar,  or  in 
the  manufacture  of  the  images  no  longer  to  be  tole- 
rated. The  cry  was  clamorous  as  that  at  Ephesus 
when  a  kindred  idol  was  in  danger;  for  "great 
had  been  Cupid  of  the  Lycians."  Nevertheless, 
the  power  of  the  duke,  backed  by  the  power  of  his 
more  popular  children,  prevailed  ;  and  the  destruc- 
tion of  every  vestige  of  the  old  religion  was  but  as 
the  work  of  one  day  throughout  the  country. 

And  now,  as  the  pagan  chronicles  of  Lycia  in- 
form us,  the  displeasure  of  Cupid  went  out, — the 
displeasure  of  a  great  god, — flying  through  all  the 
dukedom,  and  sowing  evils.  But  upon  the  first 
movers  of  the  profanation  his  angry  hand  lay 
heaviest;  and  there  was  imposed  upon  them  a 
strange  misery,  that  all  might  know  that  Cupid's 
revenge  was  mighty.  With  his  arrows  hotter  than 
plagues,  or  than  his  own  anger,  did  he  fiercely 
right  himself ;  nor  could  the  prayers  of  a  few  con- 
cealed worshippers,  nor  the  smoke  arising  from  an 


CUPID'S  REVENGE.  375 

altar  here  and  there  which  had  escaped  the  general 
overthrow,  avert  his  wrath,  or  make  him  to  cease 
from  vengeance,  until  he  had  made  of  the  once- 
flourishing  country  of  Lycia  a  most  wretched  land. 
He  sent  no  famines,  he  let  loose  no  cruel  wild 
beasts  among  them, — inflictions  with  one  or  other 
of  which  the  rest  of  the  Olympian  deities  are  fabled 
to  have  visited  the  nations  under  their  displeasure, 
— but  took  a  nearer  course  of  his  own ;  and  his  in- 
visible arrows  went  to  the  moral  heart  of  Lycia, 
infecting  and  filling  court  and  country  with  desires 
of  unlawful  marriages,  unheard-of  and  monstrous 
affections,  prodigious  and  misbecoming  unions. 

The  symptoms  were  first  visible  in  the  changed 
bosom  of  Hidaspes.  This  exemplary  maiden, — 
whose  cold  modesty,  almost  to  a  failing,  had  dis- 
couraged the  addresses  of  so  many  princely  suitors 
that  had  sought  her  hand  in  marriage, — by  the 
venom  of  this  inward  pestilence,  came  on  a  sudden 
to  cast  eyes  of  affection  upon  a  mean  and  deformed 
creature,  Zoilus  by  name,  who  was  a  dwarf,  and 
lived  about  the  palace,  the  common  jest  of  the 
courtiers.  In  her  besotted  eyes  he  was  grown  a 
goodly  gentleman ;  and  to  her  maidens,  when  any 
of  them  reproached  him  with  the  defect  of  his 
shape  in  her  hearing,  she  would  reply,  that  ' '  to 
them,  indeed,  he  might  appear  defective,  and  un- 
like a  man,  as,  indeed,  no  man  was  like  unto  him  ; 
for  in  form  and  complexion  he  was  beyond  paint- 
ing. He  is  like,"  she  said,  "to  nothing  that  we 
have  seen ;  yet  he  doth  resemble  Apollo,  as  I  have 
fancied  him,  when,  rising  in  the  east,  he  bestirs 
himself,  and  shakes  daylight  from  his  hair."  And, 
overcome  with  a  passion  which  was  heavier  than 
she  could  bear,  she  confessed  herself  a  wretched 
creature,  and  implored  forgiveness  of  God  Cupid, 


376  ELI  AN  A 

whom  she  had  provoked  ;  and,  if  possible,  that  he 
would  grant  it  to  her  that  she  might  enjoy  her  love. 
Nay,  she  would  court  this  piece  of  deformity  to  his 
face ;  and  when  the  wretch,  supposing  it  to  be 
done  in  mockery,  has  said  that  he  could  wish  him- 
self more  ill-shaped  than  he  was,  so  it  would  con- 
tribute to  make  her  grace  merry,  she  would  reply, 
"  Oh !  think  not  that  I  jest ;  unless  it  be  a  jest  not 
to  esteem  my  life  in  comparison  with  thine  ;  to 
hang  a  thousand  kisses  in  an  hour  upon  those  lips ; 
unless  it  be  a  jest  to  vow  that  I  am  willing  to  be- 
come your  wife,  and  to  take  obedience  upon  me." 
And  by  his  "  own  white  hand,"  talcing  it  in  hers, 
— so  strong  was  the  delusion, — she  besought  him 
to  swear  to  marry  her. 

The  term  had  not  yet  expired  of  the  seven  days 
Avithin  which  the  doting  duke  had  sworn  to  fulfil 
her  will,  when,  in  pursuance  of  this  frenzy,  she 
presented  herself  before  her  father,  leading  in  the 
dwarf  by  the  hand,  and,  in  the  face  of  all  the  cour- 
tiers, solemnly  demanding  his  hand  in  marriage. 
And,  when  the  apeish  creature  made  show  of  blush- 
ing at  the  unmerited  honour,  she,  to  comfort  him, 
bade  him  not  to  be  ashamed;  for,  "  in  her  eyes,  he 
was  worth  a  kingdom." 

And  now,  too  late,  did  the  fond  father  repent 
him  of  his  dotage.  But  when  by  no  importunity 
he  could  prevail  upon  her  to  desist  from  her  suit, 
for  his  oath's  sake  he  must  needs  consent  to  the 
marriage.  But  the  ceremony  was  no  sooner,  to 
the  derision  of  all  present,  performed,  than,  with 
the  just  feelings  of  an  outraged  parent,  he  com- 
manded the  head  of  the  presumptuous  bridegroom 
to  be  stricken  off,  and  committed  the  distracted 
princess  close  prisoner  to  her  chamber,  where  after 
many  deadly  swoonings,  with  intermingled  outcries 


CUPID'S  REVENGE.  yjy 

upon  the  cruelty  of  her  father,  she,  in  no  long  time 
after,  died ;  making  ineffectual  appeals,  to  the  last, 
to  the  mercy  of  the  offended  Power, —the  Power 
that  had  laid  its  heavy  hand  upon  her,  to  the  be- 
reavement of  her  good  judgment  first,  and  to  the 
extinction  of  a  life  that  might  have  proved  a  bless- 
ing to  Lycia. 

Leontius  had  scarcely  time  to  be  sensible  of  her 
danger  before  a  fresh  cause  for  mourning  overtook 
him.  His  son  Leucippus,  who  had  hitherto  been 
a  pattern  of  strict  life  and  modesty,  was  stricken 
with  a  second  arrow  from  the  deity,  offended  for 
his  overturned  altars,  in  which  the  prince  had  been 
a  chief  instrument.  The  god  caused  his  heart  to 
fall  away,  and  his  crazed  fancy  to  be  smitten  with 
the  excelling  beauty  of  a  wicked  widow,  by  name 
Bacha.  This  woman,  in  the  first  days  of  her 
mourning  for  her  husband,  by  her  dissembling  tears 
and  affected  coyness,  had  drawn  Leucippus  so  cun- 
ningly into  her  snares,  that,  before  she  would  grant 
him  a  return  of  love,  she  extorted  from  the  easy- 
hearted  prince  a  contract  of  marriage,  to  be  ful- 
filled in  the  event  of  his  father's  death.  This  guilty 
intercourse,  which  they  covered  with  the  name  of 
marriage,  was  not  carried  with  such  secrecy  but 
that  a  rumour  of  it  ran  about  the  palace,  and  by 
some  officious  courtier  was  brought  to  the  ears 
of  the  old  duke,  who,  to  satisfy  himself  of  the  truth, 
came  hastily  to  the  house  of  Bacha,  where  he  found 
his  son  courting.  Taking  the  prince  to  task  roundly, 
he  sternly  asked  who  that  creature  was  that  had 
bewitched  him  out  of  his  honour  thus.  Then 
Bacha,  pretending  ignorance  of  the  duke's  person, 
haughtily  demanded  of  Leucippus  what  saucy  old 
man  that  was,  that  without  leave  had  burst  into 
the  house  of  an  afflicted  widow  to  hinder  her  pay- 


378  ELI  AN  A. 

ing  her  tears  (as  she  pretended)  to  the  dead.  Then 
the  duke  declaring  himself,  and  threatening  her  for 
having  corrupted  his  son,  giving  her  the  reproach- 
ful terms  of  witch  and  sorceress,  Leucippus  mildly 
answered,  that  he  "did  her  wrong."  The  bad 
woman,  imagining  that  the  prince  for  very  fear 
would  not  betray  their  secret,  now  conceived  a 
project  of  monstrous  wickedness ;  which  was  no 
less  than  to  ensnare  the  father  with  the  same  arts 
which  had  subdued  the  son,  that  she  might  no 
longer  be  a  concealed  wife,  nor  a  princess  only 
under  cover,  but,  by  a  union  with  the  old  man,  be- 
come at  once  the  true  and  acknowledged  Duchess 
of  Lycia.  In  a  posture  of  humility,  she  confessed 
her  ignorance  of  the  duke's  quality ;  but,  now  she 
knew  it,  she  besought  his  pardon  for  her  wild 
speeches,  which  proceeded,  she  said,  from  a  dis- 
tempered head,  which  the  loss  of  a  dear  husband 
had  affected.  He  might  command  her  life,  she 
told  him,  which  was  now  of  small  value  to  her. 
The  tears  which  accompanied  her  words,  and 
her  mourning  weeds  (which,  for  a  blind  to  the 
world,  she  had  not  yet  cast  off),  heightening  her 
beauty,  gave  a  credence  to  her  protestations  of  her 
innocence.  But  the  duke  continuing  to  assail  her 
with  reproaches,  with  a  matchless  confidence  as- 
suming the  air  of  injured  virtue,  in  a  somewhat 
lofty  tone  she  replied,  that  though  he  were  her 
sovereign,  to  whom  in  any  lawful  cause  she  was 
bound  to  submit,  yet,  if  he  sought  to  take  away  her 
honour,  she  stood  up  to  defy  him.  That,  she  said, 
was  a  jewel  dearer  than  any  he  could  give  her, 
which,  so  long  as  she  should  keep,  she  should 
esteem  herself  richer  than  all  the  princes  of  the 
earth  that  were  without  it.  If  the  prince,  his  son, 
knew  anything  to  her  dishonour,  let  him  tell  it. 


CUPID'S  REVEKGE.  379 

And  here  she  challenged  Leucippus  before  his 
father  to  speak  the  worst  of  her.  If  he  would, 
however,  sacrifice  a  woman's  character  to  please 
an  unjust  humour  of  the  duke's,  she  saw  no  re- 
medy, she  said,  now  he  was  dead  (meaning  her  late 
husband)  that  with  his  life  would  have  defended  her 
reputation. 

Thus  appealed  to,  Leucippus,  who  had  stood  a 
while  astonished  at  her  confident  falsehoods,  though 
ignorant  of  the  full  drift  of  them,  considering  that 
not  the  reputation  only,  but  probably  the  life,  of  a 
woman  whom  he  had  so  loved,  and  who  had  made 
such  sacrifices  to  him  of  love  and  beauty,  depended 
upon  his  absolute  concealment  of  their  contract, 
framed  his  mouth  to  a  compassionate  untruth,  and 
with  solemn  asseverations  confirmed  to  his  father 
her  assurances  of  her  innocence.  He  denied  not 
that  with  rich  gifts  he  had  assailed  her  virtue,  but 
had  found  her  relentless  to  his  solicitations ;  that 
gold  nor  greatness  had  any  power  over  her.  Nay, 
so  far  he  went  on,  to  give  force  to  the  protes- 
tations of  this  artful  woman,  that  he  confessed  to 
having  offered  marriage  to  her,  which  she,  who 
scorned  to  listen  to  any  second  wedlock,  had  re- 
jected. 

All  this  while,  Leucippus  secretly  prayed  to 
Heaven  to  forgive  him  while  he  uttered  these  bold 
untruths;  since  it  was  for  the  prevention  of  a 
greater  mischief  only,  and  had  no  malice  in  it. 

But,  warned  by  the  sad  sequel  which  ensued,  be 
thou  careful,  young  reader,  how  in  any  case  you 
tell  a  lie.  Lie  not,  if  any  man  but  ask  you  "  how 
you  do,"  or  "what  o'clock  it  is."  Be  sure  you 
make  no  false  excuse  to  screen  a  friend  that  is  most 
dear  to  you.  Never  let  the  most  well-intended 
falsehood  escape  your  lips;  for  Heaven,  which  is 


38o  ELIANA. 

entirely  Truth,  will  make  the  seed  which  you  have 
sown  of  untruth  to  yield  miseries  a  thousand-fold 
upon  yours,  as  it  did  upon  the  head  of  the  ill- 
fated  and  mistaken  Leucippus. 

Leontius,  finding  the  assurances  of  Bacha  so  con- 
fidently seconded  by  his  son,  could  no  longer  with- 
hold his  belief;  and,  only  forbidding  their  meeting 
for  the  future,  took  a  courteous  leave  of  the  lady, 
presenting  her  at  the  same  time  with  a  valuable 
ring,  in  recompense,  as  he  said,  of  the  injustice 
which  he  had  done  her  in  his  false  surmises  of  her 
guiltiness.  In  truth,  the  surpassing  beauty  of  the 
lady,  with  her  appearing  modesty,  had  made  no 
less  impression  upon  the  heart  of  the  fond  old  duke 
than  they  had  awakened  in  the  bosom  of  his  more 
pardonable  son.  His  first  design  was  to  make  her 
his  mistress ;  to  the  better  accomplishing  of  which, 
Leucippus  was  dismissed  from  the  court,  under  the 
pretext  of  some  honourable  employment  abroad. 
In  his  absence,  Leontius  spared  no  offers  to  induce 
her  to  comply  with  his  purpose  Continually  he 
solicited  her  with  rich  offers,  with  messages,  and 
by  personal  visits.  It  was  a  ridiculous  sight,  if  it 
were  not  rather  a  sad  one,  to  behold  this  second 
and  worse  dotage,  which  by  Cupid's  wrath  had 
fallen  upon  this  fantastical  old  new  lover.  All  his 
occupation  now  was  in  dressing  and  pranking  him- 
self up  in  youthful  attire  to  please  the  eyes  of  his 
new  mistress.  His  mornings  were  employed  in 
the  devising  of  trim  fashions,  in  the  company  of 
tailors,  embroiderers,  and  feather-dressers.  So  in- 
fatuated was  he  with  these  vanities,  that,  when  a 
servant  came  and  told  him  that  his  daughter  was 
dead, — even  she  whom  he  had  but  lately  so  highly 
prized, — the  words  seemed  spoken  to  a  deaf  per- 
son.   He  either  could  not  or  would  not  understand 


CUPID'S  REVENGE.  ^^i 

them ;  but,  like  one  senseless,  fell  to  babbling  about 
the  shape  of  a  new  hose  and  doublet.  His  crutch, 
the  faithful  prop  of  long  aged  years,  was  discarded  ; 
\nd  he  resumed  the  youthful  fashion  of  a  sword  by 
his  side,  when  his  years  wanted  strength  to  have 
drawn  it.  In  this  condition  of  folly,  it  was  no 
difficult  task  for  the  widow,  by  affected  pretences 
of  honour,  and  arts  of  amorous  denial,  to  draw  in 
this  doting  duke  to  that  which  she  had  all  along 
limed  at, — the  offer  of  his  crown  in  marriage. 
She  was  now  Duchess  of  Lycia  !  In  her  new  ele- 
vation, the  mask  was  quickly  thrown  aside,  and 
the  impious  Bacha  appeared  in  her  true  qualities. 
She  had  never  loved  the  duke,  her  husband  ;  but 
had  used  him  as  the  instrument  of  her  greatness. 
Taking  advantage  of  his  amorous  folly,  which 
seemed  to  gain  growth  the  nearer  he  approached 
to  his  grave,  she  took  upon  her  the  whole  rule  of 
Lycia ;  placing  and  displacing,  at  her  will,  all  the 
great  officers  of  state  ;  and  filling  the  court  with 
creatures  of  her  own,  the  agents  of  her  guilty  plea- 
sures, she  removed  from  the  duke's  person  the 
oldest  and  trustiest  of  his  dependants. 

Leucippus,  who  at  this  juncture  was  returned 
from  his  foreign  mission,  was  met  at  once  with  the 
news  of  his  sister's  death  and  the  strange  wedlock 
of  the  old  duke.  To  the  memory  of  Hidaspes  he 
gave  some  tears;  but  these  were  swiftly  swallowed 
up  in  his  horror  and  detestation  of  the  conduct  of 
Bacha.  In  his  first  fury,  he  resolved  upon  a  full 
disclosure  of  all  that  had  passed  between  him  and 
his  wicked  stepmother.  Again,  he  thought,  by 
killing  Bacha,  to  rid  the  world  of  a  monster.  But 
tenderness  for  his  father  recalled  him  to  milder 
counsels.  The  fatal  secret,  nevertheless,  satuponhim 
like  lead,  while  he  was  determined  to  confide  it  to 


^82  ELIANA. 

no  other.  It  took  his  sleep  away,  and  his  desire 
of  food ;  and,  if  a  thought  of  mirth  at  any  time 
crossed  him,  the  dreadful  truth  would  recur  to 
check  it,  as  if  a  messenger  should  have  come  to 
whisper  to  him  of  some  friend's  death.  With  diffi- 
culty he  was  brought  to  wish  their  highnesses  faint 
joy  of  their  marriage  ;  and,  at  the  first  sight  of 
Bacha,  a  friend  was  fain  to  hold  his  wrist  hard  to 
prevent  him  from  fainting.  In  an  interview,  which 
after,  at  her  request,  he  had  with  her  alone,  the 
bad  woman  shamed  not  to  take  up  the  subject 
lightly ;  to  treat  as  a  trifle  the  marriage  vow  that 
had  passed  between  them;  and,  seeing  him  sad  and 
silent,  to  threaten  him  with  the  displeasure  of  the 
duke,  his  father,  if  by  words  or  looks  he  gave  any 
suspicion  to  the  world  of  their  dangerous  secret. 
"What  had  happened,"  she  said,  "was  by  no  fault 
of  hers.  People  would  have  thought  her  mad  if 
she  had  refused  the  duke's  offer.  She  had  used 
no  arts  to  entrap  his  father.  It  was  Leucippus' 
own  resolute  denial  of  any  such  thing  as  a  contract 
having  passed  between  them  which  had  led  to  the 
proposal." 

The  prince,  unable  to  extenuate  his  share  of 
blame  in  the  calamity,  humbly  besought  her,  that 
"since,  by  his  own  great  fault,  things  had  been 
brought  to  their  present  pass,  she  would  only  live 
honest  for  the  future,  and  not  abuse  the  credulous 
age  of  the  old  duke,  as  he  well  knew  she  had  the 
power  to  do.  For  himself,  seeing  that  life  was  no 
longer  desirable  to  him,  if  his  death  was  judged  by 
her  to  be  indispensable  to  her  security,  she  was 
welcome  to  lay  what  trains  she  pleased  to  compass 
it,  so  long  as  she  would  only  suffer  his  father  to  go 
to  his  grave  in  peace,  since  he  had  never  wronged 
her." 


CUPID'S  REVENGE.  383 

This  temperate  appeal  was  lost  upon  the  heart 
of  Bacha,  who  from  that  moment  was  secretly  bent 
upon  effecting  the  destruction  of  Leucippus.  Her 
project  was,  by  feeding  the  ears  of  the  duke  with 
exaggerated  praises  of  his  son,  to  awaken  a  jealousy 
in  the  old  man,  that  she  secretly  preferred  Leu- 
cippus. Next,  by  wilfully  insinuating  the  great 
popularity  of  the  prince  (which  was  no  more,  in- 
deed, than  the  truth)  among  the  Lycians,  to  instil 
subtle  fears  into  the  duke  that  his  son  had  laid  plots 
for  circumventing  his  life  and  throne.  By  these  arts 
she  was  working  upon  the  weak  mind  of  the  duke 
almost  to  distraction,  when,  at  a  meeting  concocted 
by  herself  between  the  prince  dnd  his  father,  the 
latter  taking  Leucippus  soundly  to  task  for  these 
alleged  treasons,  the  prince  replied  only  by  humbly 
drawing  his  sword,  with  the  intention  of  laying  it 
at  his  father's  feet ;  and  begging  him,  since  he  sus- 
pected him,  to  sheathe  it  in  his  own  bosom,  for  of 
his  life  he  had  been  long  weary.  Bacha  entered 
at  the  crisis,  and  ere  Leucippus  could  finish  his 
submission,  with  loud  outcries  alarmed  the  cour- 
tiers, who,  rushing  into  the  presence,  found  the 
prince  with  sword  in  hand,  indeed,  but  with  far 
other  intentions  than  this  bad  woman  imputed  to 
him,  plainly  accusing  him  of  having  drawn  it  upon 
his  father !  Leucippus  was  quickly  disarmed  ;  and 
the  old  duke,  trembling  between  fear  and  age, 
committed  him  to  close  prison,  from  which  by 
Bacha's  aims  he  never  should  have  come  out  alive 
but  for  the  interference  of  the  common  people, 
who,  loving  their  prince,  and  equally  detesting 
Bacha,  in  a  simultaneous  mutiny  arose,  and  res- 
cued him  from  the  hands  of  the  officers. 

The  court  was  now  no  longer  a  place  of  living 
for  Leucippus ;  and,  hastily  thanking  his  country- 


384  ELI  AN  A. 

men  for  his  deliverance,  which  in  his  heart  he  rather 
deprecated  than  welcomed,  as  one  that  wished  for 
death,  he  took  leave  of  all  court  hopes,  and,  aban- 
doning the  palace,  betook  himself  to  a  life  of  peni- 
tence in  solitudes. 

Not  so  secretly  did  he  select  his  place  of  penance, 
in  a  cave  among  lonely  woods  and  fastnesses,  but 
that  his  retreat  was  traced  by  Bacha,  who,  baffled 
in  her  purpose,  raging  like  some  she-wolf,  de- 
spatched an  emissary  of  her  own  to  destroy  him 
privately. 

There  was  residing  at  the  court  of  Lycia,  at  this 
time,  a  young  maiden,  the  daughter  of  Bacha  by 
her  first  husband,  who  had  hitherto  been  brought 
up  in  the  obscurity  of  a  poor  country  abode  with 
an  uncle,  but  whom  Bacha  now  publicly  owned, 
and  had  prevailed  upon  the  easy  duke  to  adopt  as 
successor  to  the  throne  in  wrong  of  the  true  heir, 
his  suspected  son  Leucippus. 

This  young  creature,  Urania  by  name,  was  as 
artless  and  hannless  as  her  mother  was  crafty  and 
wicked.  To  the  unnatural  Bacha  she  had  been  an 
object  of  neglect  and  aversion  ;  and  for  the  project 
of  supplanting  Leucippus  only  had  she  fetched  her 
out  of  retirement.  The  bringing-up  of  Urania  had 
been  among  country  hinds  and  lasses  :  to  tend  her 
flocks,  or  superintend  her  neat  dairy  had  been  the 
extent  of  her  breeding.  From  her  calling,  she 
had  contracted  a  pretty  rusticity  of  dialect,  which, 
among  the  fine  folks  of  the  court,  passed  for  sim- 
plicity and  folly.  She  was  the  unfittest  instrument 
for  an  ambitious  design  that  could  be  chosen ;  for 
her  manners  in  a  palace  had  a  tinge  still  of  her 
old  occupation ;  and,  to  her  mind,  the  lowly  shep- 
herdess's life  was  best. 

Simplicity   is   oft   a  match  for  prudence :   and 


CUPID'S  REVENGE.  385 

Urania  was  not  so  simple  but  she  understood  that 
she  had  been  sent  for  to  court  only  in  the  prince's 
wrong;  and  in  her  heart  she  was  determined  to 
defeat  any  designs  that  might  be  contriving  against 
her  brother-in-law.  The  melancholy  bearing  of  Leu- 
cippus  had  touched  her  with  pity.  This  wrought 
in  her  a  kind  of  love,  which,  for  its  object,  had 
no  further  end  than  the  well-being  of  the  beloved. 
She  looked  for  no  return  of  it,  nor  did  the  possi- 
bility of  such  a  blessing  in  the  remotest  way  occur 
to  her, — so  vast  a  distance  she  had  imaged  between 
her  lowly  bringing-up  and  the  courtly  breeding  and 
graces  of  Leucippus.  Hers  was  no  raging  flame, 
such  as  had  burned  destructive  in  the  bosom  of 
poor  Hidaspes.  Either  the  vindictive  god  in  mercy 
had  spared  this  young  maiden,  or  the  wrath  of  the 
coixfounding  Cupid  was  restrained  by  a  higher 
Power  from  discharging  the  most  malignant  of  his 
arrows  against  the  peace  of  so  much  innocence. 
Of  the  extent  of  her  mother's  malice  she  was  too 
guileless  to  have  entertained  conjecture  ;  but  from 
hints  and  whispers,  and,  above  all,  from  that  ten- 
der watchfulness  with  which  a  true  affection  like 
Urania's  tends  the  safety  of  its  object, — fearing 
even  where  no  cause  for  fear  subsists, — she  gathered 
that  some  danger  was  impending  over  the  prince, 
and  with  simple  heroism  resolved  to  countermine 
the  treason. 

It  chanced  upon  a  day  that  Leucippus  had  been 
indulging  his  sad  meditations  in  forests  far  froni 
human  converse,  when  he  was  struck  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  human  being,  so  unusual  in  that  soli- 
tude. There  stood  before  him  a  seeming  youth,  of 
delicate  appearance,  clad  in  coarse  and  peasantly 
attire.  "He  was  come,"  he  said,  "to  seek  out 
the  princei  and  to  be  his  poor  boy  and  servant,  if 

II.  c  C 


386  ELI  ANA. 

he  would  let  him."—"  Alas !  poor  youth,"  replied 
Leucippus;  "why  do  you  follow  me,  who  am  as 
poor  as  you  are?" — "  In  good  faith,"  was  his  pretty 
answer,  "  I  shall  be  well  and  rich  enough,  if  you 
will  but  love  me."  And,  saying  so,  he  wept.  The 
prince,  admiring  this  strange  attachment  in  a  boy, 
was  moved  with  compassion  ;  and  seeing  him  ex- 
hausted, as  if  with  long  travel  and  hunger,  invited 
him  in  to  his  poor  habitation,  setting  such  refresh- 
ments before  him  as  that  barren  spot  afforded.  But 
by  no  entreaties  could  he  be  prevailed  upon  to  take 
any  sustenance ;  and  all  that  day,  and  for  the  two 
following,  he  seemed  supported  only  by  some  gentle 
flame  of  love  that  was  within  him.  He  fed  only 
upon  the  gweet  looks  and  courteous  entertainment 
which  he  received  from  Leucippus.  Seemingly,  he 
wished  to  die  under  the  loving  eyes  of  his  master. 
"I  cannot  eat,"  he  prettily  said;  "but  I  shall  eat 
to-morrow." — "  You  will  be  dead  by  that  time,"  re- 
plied Leucippus.  "  I  shall  be  well  then,"  said  he ; 
"since  you  will  not  love  me."  Then  the  prince 
asking  him  why  he  sighed  so,  "To  think,"  was 
his  innocent  reply,  ' '  that  such  a  fine  man  as  you 
should  die,  and  no  gay  lady  love  him." — "But 
you  will  love  me,"  said  Leucippus.  "Yes,  sure," 
said  he,  "till  I  die;  and,  when  I  am  in  heaven, 
I  shall  wish  for  you."  "This  is  a  love,"  thought 
the  other,  ' '  that  I  never  yet  heard  tell  of.  But 
come,  thou  art  sleepy,  child :  go  in,  and  I  will  sit 
with  thee."  Then,  from  some  words  which  the 
poor  youth  dropped,  Leucippus,  suspecting  that  his 
wits  were  beginning  to  ramble,  said,  "What  por- 
tends this?" — "  I  am  not  sleepy,"  said  the  youth; 
' '  but  you  are  sad.  I  would  that  I  could  do  any- 
thing to  make  you  merry!  Shall  I  sing?"  But 
soon,  as  if  recovering  strength,  "There  is  one  ap- 


CUP  ID'S  REVENGE.  387 

preaching!"  he  wildly  cried  out.  "Master,  look 
to  yourself ! " 

His  words  were  true :  for  now  entered,  with  pro- 
vided weapon,  the  wicked  emissary  of  Bacha,  that 
we  told  of;  and,  directing  a  mortal  thrast  at  the 
prince,  the  supposed  boy,  with  a  last  effort,  inter- 
posing his  weak  body,  received  it  in  his  iDOsom, 
thanking  the  heavens  in  death  that  he  had  saved 
"  SO  good  a  master." 

Leucippus,  having  slain  the  villain,  was  at  leisure 
to  discover,  in  the  features  of  his  poor  servant,  the 
countenance  of  his  devoted  sister-in-law !  Through 
solitary  and  dangerous  ways  she  had  sought  him  in 
that  disguise ;  and,  finding  him,  seems  to  have 
resolved  upon  a  voluntary  death  by  fasting,— partly 
that  she  might  die  in  the  presence  of  her  beloved, 
and  partly  that  she  might  make  known  to  him  in 
death  the  love  which  she  wanted  boldness  to  dis- 
close to  him  while  living,  but  chiefly  because  she 
knew  that,  by  her  demise,  all  obstacles  would  be 
removed  that  stood  between  her  prince  and  his 
succession  to  the  throne  of  Lycia. 

Leucippus  had  hardly  time  to  comprehend  the 
strength  of  love  in  his  Urania,  when  a  trampling 
of  horses  resounded  through  his  solitude.  It  was 
a  party  of  Lycian  horsemen,  that  had  come  to 
seek  him,  dragging  the  detested  Bacha  in  their 
train,  who  was  now  to  receive  the  full  penalty  of 
her  misdeeds.  Amidst  her  frantic  fury  upon  the 
missing  of  her  daughter,  the  old  duke  had  suddenly 
died,  net  without  suspicion  of  her  having  adminis- 
tered poison  to  him.  Her  punishment  was  sub- 
mitted to  Leucippus,  who  was  now,  with  joyful 
acclaims,  saluted  as  the  rightful  Duke  of  Lycia. 
He,  as  no  way  moved  with  his  great  wrongs,  but 
considering  her  simply  as  the  parent  of  Urania, 


388  EL  I  AN  A. 

saluting  her  only  by  the  title  of  "Wicked  Mother," 
bade  her  to  live.  "  That  reverend  title,"  he  said, 
and  pointed  to  the  bleeding  remains  of  her  child. 
"  must  be  her  pardon.  He  would  use  no  extremity 
against  her,  but  leave  her  to  Heaven."  The  har- 
dened mother,  not  at  all  relenting  at  the  sad  spec- 
tacle that  lay  before  her,  but  making  show  of  duti- 
ful submission  to  the  young  duke,  and  with  bended 
knees  approaching  him,  suddenly  with  a  dagger 
inflicted  a  mortal  stab  upon  him  ;  and,  with  a 
second  stroke  stabbing  herself,  ended  both  their 
wretched  lives. 

Now  was  the  tragedy  of  Cupid's  wrath  awfully 
.ompleted ;  and,  the  race  of  Leontius  failing  in 
the  deaths  of  both  his  children,  the  chronicle  re- 
lates that,  under  tlieir  new  duke,  Ismenus,  the 
offence  to  the  angry  Power  was  expiated;  his 
statues  and  altars  were,  with  more  magnificence 
than  ever,  re-edified ;  and  he  ceased  thenceforth 
from  plaguing  the  land. 

Thus  far  the  pagan  historians  relate  erring. 
But  from  this  vain  idol  story  a  not  unprofitable 
moral  may  be  gathered  against  the  abuse  of  the 
natural  but  dangerous  passion  of  love.  In  the  story 
of  Hidaspes,  we  see  the  preposterous  linking  of 
beauty  with  deformity ;  of  princely  expectancies 
with  mean  and  low  conditions,  in  the  case  of  the 
prince,  her  brother ;  and  of  decrepit  age  with 
youth,  in  the  ill  end  of  their  doting  father,  Leon- 
tius. By  their  examples  we  are  warned  to  decline 
all  tmequal  and  ill-assoi-ted  unions. 


f^^^ 


THE    DEFEAT   OF  TIME; 


OR,  A  TALE  OF  THE  FAIRIES. 

[ITANIA  and  her  moonlight  elves  were 
assembled  under  the  canopy  of  a  huge 
oak,  that  served  to  shelter  them  from 
the  moon's  radiance,  which,  being  now 
at  her  full  moon,  shot  forth  intolerable  rays, — in- 
tolerable, I  mean,  to  the  subtile  texture  of  their 
little  shadowy  bodies, — but  dispensing  an  agreeable 
coolness  to  us  grosser  mortals.  An  air  of  discom- 
fort sate  upon  the  queen  and  upon  her  courtiers. 
Their  tiny  friskings  and  gambols  were  forgot ;  and 
even  Robin  Goodfellow,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
little  airy  life,  looked  grave.  For  the  queen  had 
had  melancholy  forebodings  of  late,  founded  upon 
an  ancient  prophecy  laid  up  in  the  records  of  Fairy- 
land, that  the  date  of  fairy  existence  should  be 
then  extinct  when  men  should  cease  to  believe  in 
them.  And  she  knew  how  that  the  race  of  the 
Nymphs,  which  were  her  predecessors,  and  had 
been  the  guardians  of  the  sacred  floods,  and  of  the 
silver  fountains,  and  of  the  consecrated  hills  and 
woods,  had  utterly  disappeared  from  the  chilling 
touch  of  man's  incredulity ;  and  she  sighed  bitterly 
at  the  approaching  fate  of  herself  and  of  her  sub- 
jects, which  was  dependent  upon  so  fickle  a  lease 


390  ELI  ANA. 

as  the  capricious  and  ever-mutable  faith  of  man. 
When,  as  if  to  realize  her  fears,  a  melanchol)'  shape 
came  gliding  in,  and  that  was — Time,  who  with 
his  intolerable  scythe  mows  down  kings  and  king- 
doms ;  at  whose  dread  approach  the  fays  huddled 
together  as  a  flock  of  timorous  sheep;  and  the 
most  courageous  among  them  crept  into  acorn- 
cups,  not  enduring  the  sight  of  that  ancientest  of 
monarchs.  Titania's  first  impulse  was  to  wish  the 
presence  of  her  false  lord.  King  Oberon, — who  was 
far  away,  in  the  pursuit  of  a  strange  beauty,  a  fay 
of  Indian  Land, — that  with  his  good  lance  and 
sword,  like  a  faithful  knight  and  husband,  he 
might  defend  her  against  Time.  But  she  soon 
checked  that  thought  as  vain  ;  for  what  could  the 
prowess  of  the  mighty  Oberon  himself,  albeit  the 
stoutest  champion  in  Fairyland,  have  availed 
against  so  huge  a  giant,  whose  bald  top  touched 
the  skies  ?  So,  in  the  mildest  tone,  she  besought 
the  spectre,  that  in  his  mercy  he  would  overlook 
and  pass  by  her  small  subjects,  as  too  diminutive 
and  powejless  to  add  any  worthy  trophy  to  his 
renown.  And  she  besought  him  to  employ  his 
resistless  strength  against  the  ambitious  children  of 
men,  and  to  lay  waste  their  aspiring  works ;  to 
tumble  down  their  towers  and  turrets,  and  the 
Babels  of  their  pride, — fit  objects  of  his  devouring 
scythe, — but  to  spare  her  and  her  harmless  race, 
who  had  no  existence  beyond  a  dream ;  frail  objects 
of  a  creed  that  lived  but  in  the  faith  of  the  believer. 
And  with  her  little  arms,  as  well  as  she  could,  she 
grasped  the  stern  knees  of  Time ;  and,  waxing 
speechless  with  fear,  she  beckoned  to  her  chief 
attendants  and  maids  of  honour  to  come  forth  from 
their  hiding-places,  and  to  plead  the  plea  of  the 
fairies.    And  one  of  those  small,  delicate  creatures 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  TIME.  391 

came  forth  at  her  bidding,  clad  all  in  white  like  a 
chorister,  and  in  a  low,  melodious  tone,  not  louder 
than  the  hum  of  a  pretty  bee, — when  it  seems  to 
be  demurring  whether  it  shall  settle  upon  this 
sweet  flower  or  that  before  it  settles, — set  forth  her 
Irumble  petition.  "  We  fairies, "  she  said,  "are 
the  most  inoffensive  race  that  live,  and  least  de- 
serving to  perish.  It  is  we  that  have  the  care  of 
all  sweet  melodies,  that  no  discords  may  offend  the 
sun,  who  is  the  great  soul  of  music.  We  rouse  the 
lark  at  morn  ;  and  the  pretty  Echoes,  which  respond 
to  all  the  twittering  choir,  are  of  our  making. 
Wherefore,  great  King  of  Years,  as  ever  you  have 
loved  the  music  which  is  raining  from  a  morning 
cloud  sent  from  the  messenger  of  day,  the  lark, 
as  he  mounts  to  heaven's  gate,  beyond  the  ken 
of  mortals  ;  or  if  ever  you  have  listened  with  a 
charmed  ear  to  the  night-bird,  that — 

In  the  flowery  spring, 
Amidst  the  leaves  set,  makes  the  thickets  ring 
Of  her  sour  sorrows,  sweetened  with  her  song— 

spare  our  tender  tribes,  and  we  will  muffle  up  the 
sheep-bell  for  thee,  that  thy  pleasure  take  no  in- 
terruption whenever  thou  shall  listen  unto  Phi- 
lomel." 

And  Time  answered,  that  "he  had  heard  that 
song  too  long ;  and  he  was  even  wearied  with  that 
ancient  strain  that  recorded  the  wrong  of  Tereus. 
But,  if  she  would  know  in  what  music  Time  de- 
lighted, it  was,  when  sleep  and  darkness  lay  upon 
crowded  cities,  to  hark  to  the  midnight  chime 
which  is  tolling  from  a  hundred  clocks,  like  the 
last  knell  over  the  soul  of  a  dead  world  ;  or  to  the 
crush  of  the  fall  of  some  age-worn  edifice,  which 


39*  ELIANA. 

is  a&4he  voice  of  himself  when  he  disparteth  king- 
doms." 

A  second  female  fay  took  up  the  plea,  and  said, 
'*  We  be  the  handmaids  of  the  Spring,  and  tend 
upon  the  birth  of  all  sweet  buds  :  and  the  pastoral 
cowslips  are  our  friends  ;  and  the  pansies  and  the 
violets,  like  nuns ;  and  the  quaking  harebell  is  in 
our  wardship  :  and  the  hyacinth,  once  a  fair  youth, 
and  dear  to  Phoebus." 

Then  Time  made  answer,  in  his  wrath  striking 
the  harmless  ground  with  his  hurtful  scythe,  that 
"they  must  not  think  that  he  was  one  that  cared 
for  flowers,  except  to  see  them  wither,  and  to  take 
her  beauty  from  the  rose. " 

And  a  third  fairy  took  up  the  plea,  and  said, 
"  We  are  kindly  things  :  and  it  is  we  that  sit  at 
evening,  and  shake  rich  odours  from  sweet  bowers 
upon  discoursing  lovers,  that  seem  to  each  other  to 
be  their  own  sighs  :  and  we  keep  off  the  bat  and 
the  owl  from  their  privacy,  and  the  ill-boding 
whistler ;  and  we  flit  in  sweet  dreams  across  the 
brains  of  infancy,  and  conjure  up  a  smile  upon  its 
soft  lips  to  beguile  the  careful  mother,  while  its 
little  soul  is  fled  for  a  brief  minute  or  two  to  sport 
with  our  youngest  fairies." 

Then  Saturn  (which  is  Time)  made  answer,  that 
"  they  should  not  think  that  he  delighted  in  tender 
babes,  that  had  devoured  his  own,  till  foolish  Rhea 
cheated  him  with  a  stone,  which  he  swallowed, 
thinking  it  to  be  the  infant  Jupiter."  And  thereat, 
in  token,  he  disclosed  to  view  his  enormous  tooth, 
in  which  appeared  monstrous  dents  left  by  that 
unnatural  meal ;  and  his  great  throat,  that  seemed 
capable  of  devouring  up  the  earth  and  all  its  in- 
habitants at  one  meal.  "And  for  lovers,"  he  con- 
tinued, "my  delight  is,  with  a  hurrying  band  to 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  TIME.  393 

snatch  them  away  from  their  love-meetings  by 
steahh  at  nights  ;  and,  in  absence,  to  stand  like  a 
motionless  statue,  or  their  leaden  planet  of  mishap 
(whence  I  had  my  name),  till  I  make  their  minutes 
seem  ages." 

Next  stood  up  a  male  fairy,  clad  all  in  green, 
like  a  forester  or  one  of  Robin  Hood's  mates,  and, 
doffing  his  tiny  cap,  said,  "We  are  small  foresters, 
that  live  in  woods,  training  the  young  boughs  in 
graceful  intricacies,  with  blue  snatches  of  the  sky 
between  :  we  frame  all  shady  roofs  and  arches 
rude  ;  and  sometimes,  when  we  are  plying  our  ten- 
der hatchets,  men  say  that  the  tapping  woodpecker 
is  nigh.  And  it  is  we  that  scoop  the  hollow  cell 
of  the  squirrel,  and  carve  quaint  letters  upon  the 
rinds  of  trees,  which  in  sylvan  solitudes  sweetly  re- 
call to  the  mind  of  the  heat-oppressed  swain,  ere 
he  lies  down  to  slumber,  the  name  of  his  fair  one, 
dainty  Aminta,  gentle  Rosalind,  or  chastest  Laura, 
as  it  may  happen." 

Saturn,  nothing  moved  with  this  courteous  ad- 
dress, bade  him  be  gone,  or,  "if  he  would  be  a 
woodman,  to  go  forth  and  fell  oak  for  the  fairies' 
coffins  which  would  forthwith  be  wanting.  For 
himself,  he  took  no  delight  in  haunting  the  woods, 
till  their  golden  plumage  (the  yellow  leaves)  were 
beginning  to  fall,  and  leave  the  brown-black  limbs 
bare,  like  Nature  in  her  skeleton  dress." 

Then  stood  up  one  of  those  gentle  fairies  that  are 
good  to  man,  and  blushed  red  as  any  rose  while 
he  told  a  modest  story  of  one  of  his  own  good 
deeds.  "It  chanced  upon  a  time,"  he  said,  "that 
while  we  were  looking  cowslips  in  the  meads,  while 
yet  the  dew  was  hanging  on  the  buds  like  beuds, 
we  found  a  babe  left  in  its  swathing-clothes, — a 
little  sorrowful,  deserted  thing,  begot  of  love,  but 


394  ELI  ANA. 

begetting  no  love  in  others ;  guiltless  of  shame, 
but  doomed  to  shame  for  its  parents'  offence  in 
bringing  it  by  indirect  courses  into  the  world.  It 
was  pity  to  see  the  abandoned  little  orphan  left  to 
the  world's  care  by  an  unnatural  mother.  How 
the  cold  dew  kept  wetting  its  childish  coats !  and 
its  little  hair,  how  it  was  bedabbled,  that  was  like 
gossamer  !  Its  pouting  mouth,  unknowing  how 
to  speak,  lay  half  opened  like  a  rose-lipped  shell ; 
and  its  cheek  was  softer  than  any  peach,  upon 
which  the  tears,  for  very  roundness,  could  not  long 
dwell,  but  fell  off,  in  clearness  like  pearls, — some 
on  the  grass,  and  some  on  his  little  hand ;  and 
some  haply  wandered  to  the  little  dimpled  well 
under  his  mouth,  which  Love  himself  seemed  to 
have  planned  out,  but  less  for  tears  than  for  smil- 
ings.  Pity  it  was,  too,  to  see  how  the  burning  sun 
had  scorched  its  helpless  limbs  ;  for  it  lay  without 
shade  or  shelter,  or  mother's  breast,  for  foul  weather 
or  fair.  So,  having  compassion  on  its  sad  plight, 
my  fellows  and  I  turned  ourselves  into  grass- 
hoppers, and  swarmed  about  the  babe,  making 
such  shrill  cries  as  that  pretty  little  chirping  crea- 
ture makes  in  its  mirth,  till  with  our  noise  we  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  a  passing  rustic,  a  tender- 
hearted hind,  who,  Vi'ondering  at  our  small  but 
loud  concert,  strayed  aside  curiously,  and  found 
the  babe,  where  it  lay  in  the  remote  grass,  and, 
taking  it  up,  lapped  it  in  his  russet  coat,  and  bore 
it  to  his  cottage,  where  his  wife  kindly  nurtured  it 
till  it  grew  up  a  goodly  personage.  How  this  babe 
prospered  afterwards  let  proud  London  tell.  This 
was  that  famous  Sir  Thomas  Gresham,  who  was 
the  chiefest  of  her  merchants,  the  richest,  the  wisest. 
Witness  his  many  goodly  vessels  on  the  Thames, 
freighted  with  costly  merchandise,  jewels  from  Ind, 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  TIME.  395 

and  pearls  for  courtly  dames,  and  silks  of  Samar- 
cand.  And  witness,  more  than  all,  that  stately 
Bourse  (or  Exchange)  which  he  caused  to  be  built, 
a  mart  for  merchants  fi-om  east  and  west,  whose 
graceful  summit  still  bears,  in  token  of  the  fairies' 
favours,  his  chosen  crest,  the  grasshopper.  And, 
like  the  grasshopper,  may  it  please  you,  great  king, 
fo  suffer  us  also  to  live,  partakers  of  the  green 
earth ! " 

The  fairy  had  scarce  ended  his  plea,  when  a 
shrill  cry,  not  unlike  the  grasshopper's  was  heard. 
Poor  Puck — or  Robin  Goodfellow,  as  he  is  some- 
times called — had  recovered  a  little  from  his  first 
fright,  and,  in  one  of  his  mad  freaks,  had  perched 
upon  the  beard  of  old  Time,  which  was  flowing, 
ample,  and  majestic ;  and  was  amusing  himself 
with  plucking  at  a  hair,  which  was  indeed  so  massy, 
that  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  removing  some 
huge  beam  of  timber,  rather  than  a  hair ;  which 
Time  by  some  ill  chance  perceiving,  snatched  up 
the  impish  mischief  with  his  great  hand,  and  asked 
what  it  was. 

"  Alas  !  "  quoth  Puck,  "a  little  random  elf  am 
I,  born  in  one  of  Nature's  sports  ;  a  very  weed, 
created  for  the  simple,  sweet  enjoyment  of  myself, 
but  for  no  other  purpose,  worth,  or  need,  that  ever 
I  could  learn.  'Tis  I  that  bob  the  angler's  idle 
cork,  till  the  patient  man  is  ready  to  breathe  a 
curse.  I  steal  the  morsel  from  the  gossip's  fork,  or 
stop  the  sneezing  chanter  in  mid  psalm ;  and  when 
an  infant  lias  been  bom  with  hard  or  homely  fea- 
tures, mothers  say  I  changed  the  child  at  nurse: 
but  to  fulfil  any  graver  purposes  I  have  not  wit 
enough,  and  hardly  the  will.  I  am  a  pinch  of 
lively  dust  to  frisk  upon  the  wind :  a  tear  would 
make  a  puddle  of  me  ;  and  so  I  tickle  myself  with 


396  ELI  ANA. 

the  lightest  straw,  and  siiun  all  griefs  that  might 
make  me  stagnant.  This  is  my  small  philosophy." 
Then  Time,  dropping  him  on  the  ground,  as  a 
thing  too  inconsiderable  for  his  vengeance,  grasped 
fast  his  mighty  scythe  :  and  now,  not  Puck  alone, 
but  the  whole  state  of  fairies,  had  gone  to  inevitable 
wreck  and  destruction,  had  not  a  timely  apparition 
interposed,  at  whose  boldness  Time  was  astounded  ; 
for  he  came  not  with  the  habit  or  the  forces  of  a 
deity,  who  alone  might  cope  with  Time,  but  as  a 
simple  mortal,  clad  as  you  might  see  a  forester  that 
hunts  after  wild  conies  by  the  cold  moonshine  ;  or 
a  stalker  of  stray  deer,  stealthy  and  bold.  But  by 
the  golden  lustre  in  his  eye,  and  the  passionate 
wanness  in  his  cheek,  and  by  the  fair  and  ample 
space  of  his  forehead,  which  seemed  a  palace 
framed  for  the  habitation  of  all  glorious  thoughts, 
he  knew  that  this  was  his  great  rival,  who  had 
power  given  hira  to  rescue  whatsoever  victims 
Time  should  clutch,  and  to  cause  them  to  live  for 
ever  in  his  immortal  verse.  And,  muttering  the 
name  of  Shakespeare,  Time  spread  his  roc-like 
wings,  and  fled  the  controlling  presence ;  and  the 
liberated  court  of  the  fairies,  with  Titania  at  their 
head,  flocked  around  the  gentle  ghost,  giving  him 
thanks,  nodding  to  him,  and  doing  him  courtesies, 
who  had  crowned  them  henceforth  with  a  permanent 
existence,  to  live  in  the  minds  of  men,  while  verse 
shall  have  power  to  charm,  or  midsummer  moons 
shall  brighten. 


What  particular  endearments  passed  between  the 
fairies  and  their  poet,  passes  my  pencil  to  delineate ; 
but,  if  you  are  curious  to  be  informed,  I  must  refer 
you,  gentle  reader,  to  the  "  Plea  of  the  Midsummer 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  TIME.  397 

Fairies,"  a  most  agreeable  poem  lately  put  forth 
by  my  friend  Thomas  Hood ;  of  the  first  half  of 
which  the  above  is  nothing  but  a  meagre  and  harsh 
prose  abstract.     Farewell ! 

The  words  of  Mercury  ate  harsh  after  the  songs 
of  Apollo. 


A   DEATH-BED. 


IN   A   LETTER   TO   R.    H.,    ESQ.,    OF   B . 

CALLED  upon  you  this  morning,  and 
found  that  you  were  gone  to  visit  a 
dying  friend.     I  had  been  upon  a  like 

errand.    Poor  N.  R.  has  lain  dying  now 

for  almost  a  week  ;  such  is  the  penalty  we  pay  for 
having  enjoyed  through  life  a  strong  constitution. 
Whether  he  knew  me  or  not,  I  know  not,  or 
whether  he  saw  me  through  his  poor  glazed  eyes  ; 
but  the  group  I  saw  about  him  I  shall  not  forget. 
Upon  the  bed,  or  about  it,  were  assembled  his 
wife,  their  two  daughters,  and  poor  deaf  Robert, 
looking  doubly  stupefied.  There  they  were,  and 
seemed  to  have  been  sitting  all  the  v/eek.  I  could 
only  reach  out  a  hand  to  Mrs.  R.  Speaking  was 
impossible  in  that  mute  chamber.  By  this  time  it 
must  be  all  over  with  him.  In  him  I  have  a  loss 
the  world  cannot  make  up.  He  was  my  friend, 
and  my  father's  friend,  for  all  the  life  that  I  can 
remember.  I  seem  to  have  made  foolish  friend- 
ships since.  Those  are  the  friendships,  which  out- 
last a  second  generation.  Old  as  I  am  getting,  in 
his  eyes  I  was  still  the  child  he  knew  me.  To  the 
last  he  called  me  Jemmy.  I  have  none  to  call  me 
Jemmy  now.     He  was  the  last  link  that  bound  me 


A  DEATH-bED.  399 

lo  B .     You  are  but  of  yesterday.     In  him  I 

seem  to  have  lost  the  old  plainness  of  manners  and 
singleness  of  heart.  Lettered  he  was  not  ;  his 
reading  scarcely  exceeded  the  obituary  of  the  old 
"Gentleman's  Magazine,"  to  which  he  has  never 
failed  of  having  recourse  for  these  last  fifty  years. 
Yet  there  was  the  pride  of  literature  about  him 
from  that  slender  perusal ;  and,  moreover,  from 
his  office  of  archive-keeper  to  your  ancient  city,  in 
which  he  must  needs  pick  up  some  equivocal  Latin ; 
which,  among  his  less  literaiy  friends,  assumed  the 
air  of  a  very  pleasant  pedantry.  Can  I  forget  the 
erudite  look  with  which,  having  tried  to  puzzle  out 
the  text  of  a  black-lettered  Chaucer  in  your  Cor- 
poration Library,  to  which  he  was  a  sort  of  libra- 
rian, he  gave  it  up  with  this  consolatory  reflection — 
"Jemmy,  "said  he,  "I  do  not  know  what  you  find 
in  these  very  old  books,  but  I  observe  there  is  a 
deal  of  very  indifferent  spelling  in  them."  His 
jokes  (for  he  had  some)  are  ended  ;  but  they  were 
old  perennials,  staple,  and  always  as  good  as  new. 
He  had  one  song,  that  spake  of  the  "  flat  bottoms 
of  our  foes  coming  over  in  darkness,"  and  alluded 
to  a  threatened  invasion,  many  years  since  blown 
over  ;  this  he  reserved  to  be  sung  on  Christmas 
night,  which  we  always  passed  with  him,  and  he 
sang  it  with  the  freshness  of  an  impending  event. 
How  his  eyes  would  sparkle  when  he  came  to  the 
passage  : — 

We'll  still  make  'em  run,  and  we'll  still  make  'em  sweat, 
In  spite  of  the  devil  and  Brussels'  Gazette  ! 

What  is  the  "  Brussels'  Gazette  "  now  ?  I  cry,  while 
I  endite  these  trifles.  His  poor  girls,  who  are,  I 
believe,  compact  of  solid  goodness,  will  have  to 
receive   their  afflicted  mother  at  an  unsuccessful 


400  ELI  ANA. 

home  in  a  petty  village  in  shire,  where  for 

years  they  have  been  struggling  to  raise  a  girls' 
school  with  no  effect.  Poor  deaf  Robert  (and  the 
less  hopeful  for  being  so)  is  thrown  upon  a  deaf 
world,  without  the  comfort  to  his  father  on  his 
death-bed  of  knowing  him  provided  for.  They 
are  left  almost  provisionless.     Some  life  assurance 

there  is  ;  but,  I  fear,  not  exceeding .     Their 

hopes  must  be  from  your  corporation,  which  their 
father  has  served  for  fifty  years.  Who  or  what  are 
your  leading  members  now,  I  know  not.  Is  there 
any,  to  whom,  without  impertinence,  you  can  re- 
present the  true  circumstances  of  the  family  ?  You 
cannot  say  good  enough  of  poor  R.  and  his  poor 
w^ife.     Oblige  me  and  the  dead,  if  you  can. 


APPENDIX. 


[In  these  Essays  Charles  Lamb  assumed  the  name  of  an 
Italian,  who  was  one  of  his  colleagues  in  the  South  Sea 
House.] 

SOUTH   SEA  HOUSE. 

Mr.  John  Lamb,  the  Essayist's  brother,  was  a  clerk  in  the 
South  Sea  House.  His  passion  for  picture  collecting  is 
recorded  in  the  admirable  sketch  of  him  (as  James  Elia)  in 
"  My  Relations." 

OXFORD    IN   THE  VACATION. 

"G.  D.,"  Mr.  George  Dyer,  author  of  a  "  History  of  the 
University  and  Colleges  of  Cambridge."  The  passage  in 
brackets  was  suppressed  at  the  earnest  remonstrance  of 
Dyer^  who  complained  that  it  conveyed  quite  a  false  im- 
pression of  the  treatment  he  had  received  from  his  various 
employers.  Mr.  Procter  vouches  for  the  truth  of  the  anec- 
dote about  Dyer's  calling  at  "  M 's,  in  Bedford  Square  ;  " 

another  e.xample  of  his  extreme  absence  of  mind  will  be 
found  in  a  later  Essay,  "  Amicus  Redivivus." 

To  Elia's  confession  of  his  aversion  to  MSS.,  on  page  172, 
line  26,  was  appended  the  following  note  in  the  original 
Essay : — 

There  is  something  to  me  repugnant  at  any  time 
in  written  hand.  The  text  never  seems  determinate. 
Print  settles  it.  I  had  thought  of  the  Lycidas  as  of 
a  full-grown  beauty — as  springing  up  with  all  its 

IL  D  D 


402  APPENDIX. 

parts  absolute — till,  in  an  evil  hour,  I  was  sho\\n 
the  original  written  copy  of  it,  together  with  the 
other  minor  poems  of  its  author,  in  the  librai-y  of 
Trinity,  kept  like  some  treasure,  to  be  proud  of. 
I  wish  they  had  thrown  them  in  the  Cam,  or  sent 
them  after  the  latter  cantos  of  Spenser,  into  the 
Irish  Channel.  How  it  staggered  me  to  see  the 
fine  things  in  their  ore  !  interlined,  corrected  !  as  if 
their  words  were  miortal,  alterable,  displaceable  at 
pleasure !  as  if  they  might  have  been  otherwise, 
and  just  as  good  !  as  if  inspiration  were  made  up 
of  parts,  and  those  fluctuating,  successive,  indif- 
ferent !  I  will  never  go  into  the  workshop  of  any 
great  artist  again,  nor  desire  a  siglit  of  his  picture 
till  it  is  fairly  off  the  easel ;  no,  not  if  Raphael 
were  to  be  alive  again,  and  painting  another 
Galatea. 

After  "none  thinks  of  offering  violence  or  injustice  to 
him,"  page  173,  line  16,  there  was  reference  to  the  following 
note  : — 

Violence  or  injustice,  certainly  none,  Mr.  Elia. 
But  you  will  acknowledge  that  the  charming  un- 
suspectingness  of  our  friend  has  sometimes  laid 
him  open  to  attacks,  which,  though  savouring  (we 
hope)  more  of  waggery  than  of  malice — such  is  our 
unfeigned  respect  for  G.  D. — might,  we  think, 
much  better  have  been  omitted.     Such  was  that 

silly  ></ke  of  L ,  who,  at  the  time  the  question 

of  the  Scotch  novels  was  first  agitated,  gravely 
assured  our  friend — who  as  gravely  went  about  re- 
peating it  in  all  companies — that  Lord  Castlereagh 
had  acknowledged  himself  to  be  the  author  of 
Waverley  ! — Note,  not  by  Elia. 

This  is  a  fact.     "  L "  was  Elia  himself. 


APPENDIX. 


CHRIST'S  HOSPITAL  THIRTY-FIVE 
YEARS  AGO. 

This  Essay  is  a  review  of,  or  rather,  perhaps,  a  pendant 
to,  C.  Lamb's  own  ''  Recollections  of  Christ's  Hospital," 
and  gives  some  of  the  less  favourable  characteristics  of  the 
system  adopted  there.  Tobin  was  a  friend  of  Lamb's,  of 
whom  little  is  known.  In  a  letter  to  Wordsworth,  full  of 
elation  at  the  acceptance  of  his  farce,  entitled  "  Mr.  H.,"  by 
the  managers  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  Lamb  says: — "On 
the  following  Sunday,  Mr.  Tobin  comes.  The  scent  of  a 
manager's  letter  brought  him.  He  would  have  gone  farther 
any  day  on  such  a  business.  I  read  the  letter  to  him.  He 
deems  it  authentic  and  peremptory."  In  a  subsequent  letter 
to  Southey,  dated  August  15,  1815,  he  says: — "Tobin  is 
dead."  Godwin's  tragedy  ''Antonio,"  we  learn  from  a 
letter  of  Lamb's,  came  out  "  in  a  feigned  name,  as  one 
Tobin's." 

This  Essay  contains  a  very  faithful  representation  of 
Lamb's  teachers  and  schoolfellows  at  Christ's  Hospital. 
Boyer  and  Field  both  received  their  appointments  in  1776. 
The  Rev.   L.  P.  Stevens,  who  was  Grecian  in  1788,   left 

Christ's  Hospital  in  1807.     Dr.  T e  (the   Rev.  Arthur 

William  TroUope)  retired  in  1827,  and  died  in  the  same 
year.  The  Right  Honourable  Sir  Edward  Thornton  was 
Grecian  in  1785,  and  third  wrangler  at  Cambridge  in  1789. 
Through  the  interest  of  Mr.  Pitt,  he  became  Envoy  Extra- 
ordinary and  Minister  Plenipotentiary  at  the  Court  of  Por- 
tugal and  the  Brazils.  George  Richards  was  Grecian  in 
1785,  before  Middleton.  Mr.  Charles  Valentine  Le  Grice 
supplied  a  good  deal  of  information  about  Elia's  school- 
days. His  younger  brother,  Samuel  Le  Grice,  was  "like  a 
brother"  to  Lamb  at  the  time  of  his  mother's  death.  He 
died  of  the  yellow  fever,  in  Jamaica.  Robert  Allen  was 
Grecian  in  1792.  (See  also  "  Newspapers  Thirty-five  Years 
Ago.")  Frederick  William  Franklin,  Master  of  H.:i\ford, 
and  Marmaduke  Thompson,  complete  the  list  of  thost  com- 
panions of  Lamb's  school-days  who  can  now  be  identified. 

TWO  RACES  OF  MEN 

"Ralph  Bigod."  John  Fenwick,  editor  of  the  Albion 
newspaper,  to  which  Lamb  at  one  time  contributed,  was  the 
original  of  this  character.  (See  "Newspapers  Thirty-five 
Years  Ago,"  in  the  "  Last  Essays  of  Elia.") 


{04  APPEXDIX. 

S.  T.  Coleridge,  in  early  manhood,  enlisted  in  a  regiment 
of  dragoons  under  the  assumed  name  of  Comberback,  or 
Comberbatch. 

The  initial  "  K."  was  probably  intended  for  Kenney,  the 
farce  writer,  whom  Lamb  visited  at  Versailles  (Mr.  Percy 
Fitzgerald  tells  us)  during  a  short  trip  to  France. 

MRS.  BATTLE'S  OPINION  ON  WHIST. 

Mr.  Procter  says  that  Mrs.  Battle  is  an  imag  nary  cha- 
racter. She  bears,  however,  some  resemblance,  as  Mr. 
Percy  Fitzgerald  remarks,  to  Elia's  Grandmother  Field,  in 

"Dream  Children."     In  "  Blakesmoor,  in  H shire"  (the 

house  in  which  this  old  relative  was  housekeeper  for  many 
years),  Elia  speaks  of  "  the  room  in  which  old  Mrs.  Battle 
died."_ 

"  Bridget  Elia," — his  sister  Mary.  Under  this  name  she 
IS  always  mentioned  in  the  Essays. 

A  CHAPTER  ON  EARS. 

"My  good  Catholic  friend  Nov ,"  was  Mr.  Novello, 

the  well-known  composer. 

THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  SCHOOLMASTER. 

The  "very  dear  friend"  in  New  South  Wales  was  Mr. 
Barron  Field,  to  whom  the  Essay  called  "  Distant  Cor- 
respondents "  was  originally  addressed. 

"  M."  was  no  doubt  Mr.  Thomas  Manning,  who  was  a 
mathematical  tutor  at  Cambridge  at  the  time  Lamb  made 
his  acquaintance. 

Page  252,  "  Can  I  reproach  her  for  it  ?"  Between  this  and 
the  concluding  sentence  the  following  words  appeared  in  the 
original  Essay : — 

' '  These  kind  of  complaints  are  not  often  drawn 
from  me.  I  am  aware  that  I  am  a  fortunate,  I 
mean  a  prosperous,  man." 

My  feelings  prevent  me  from  transcribing  any 
further. 

IMPERFECT  SYMPATHIES. 

"  B ,"  Braham,  the  celebrated  tenor.  Lamb  else- 
where describes  him  as  a  mixture  of  "  the  Jew,  the  gentle- 
man, and  the  angel." 


APPENDIX.  405 

The  Quaker  story  Lamb  had  from  Carlisle,  the  celebrated 
surgeon,  who  was  an  eyewitness  of  the  scene. 

WITCHES  AND  OTHER  NIGHT  FEARS. 

"Dear  little  T.  H.,"  one  of  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt's  children, 
of  whom  Lamb  was  extremely  fond,  and  to  whom  he  ad- 
dressed some  pretty  lines. 

MY  RELATIONS. 

James  and  Bridget  Elia."   His  brother  and  sister,  John 
and  Mary  Lamb. 

MACKERY  END,  IN  HERTFORDSHIRE. 
"B.  F."     Mr.  Barron  Field. 

MODERN  GALLANTRY. 

Sir  T.  Talfourd  says,  in  his  Memoir  of  Lamb,  that  "his 
account  of  Mr.  Paice's  politeness  could  be  attested  to  the 
letter  by  living  witnesses."  (1834.) 

THE  OLD  BENCHERS  OF  THE  INNER 
TEMPLE. 

Mr.  Procter  says  that  all  these  "old  Benchers"  are  fic- 
titious characters,  with  the  exception  cf  "  Samuel  Salt,"  the 
barrister,  in  whose  employ  C.  Lamb's  father  was. 

"Lovel;"  this  admirable  sketch  is  a  portrait  of  Elia's 
father,  Mr.  John  Lamb. 

"  R.  N.,"  probably  Mr.  Robert  Norris,  a  very  old  friend 
of  the  Lambs,  and  an  officer  of  the  Inner  Temple. 

GRACE  BEFORE  ME.^T. 

Mr.  C.  V.  Le  Grice's  witticism  has  often  been  attributed 
to  other  humorists. 

DREAM  CHILDREN. 

Some  further  account  of  the  "great  house  in  Norfolk" 
will  be  found  in  "  Blakesmoor,"  the  first  of  the  "  Last  Essay? 
of  Elia."  The  house  is  there  represented  as  situated  in 
Hertfordshire,  as  it  really  was. 


4o6  APPENDIX. 

In  a  letter  to  Coleridge,  Lamb  says  of  his  Grandmother 
Field,  that  she  "  lived  housekeeper  in  a  family  the  fifty  or 
sixty  last  years  of  her  life  ;  that  she  was  a  woman  of  exem- 
plary piety  and  goodness,  and  for  many  years  before  her 
death  was  terribly  afflicted  with  a  cancer  in  her  breast, 
which  she  bore  with  true  Christian  patience.' 

"John  L.,"  Charles's  brother,  a  clerk  in  the  South  Sea 
House.  He  was  lamed  by  the  fall  of  a  stone,  which  was 
blown  down  in  a  high  wind. 

DISTANT   CORRESPONDENTS. 

This  Essay  originally  formed  part  of  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Barron  Field,  who  had  received  a  judicial  appointment  in 
New  South  Wales. 

"J.  W.,"  Mr.  James  White,  who  died  in  1821.  (See  note 
to  the  following  Essay.) 

THE  PRAISE  OF  CHIMNEY-SWEEPERS. 

James  White  was  Lamb's  schoolfellow  at  Christ's,  and 
his  constant  companion  in  his  early  years.  He  was  the 
author  of"  Letters  of  Sir  John  Falstaff,  Knt.,"  in  the  writing 
cf  which  Southey  says  Lamb  had  a  share. 

COMPLAINT  OF  THE  DECAY  OF  BEGGARS. 

The  following  postscript  was  appended  to  this  Essay  in 
the  "  London  Magazine  :  " — 

P.  S. — My  friend  Hume  (not  M.P.)  has  a  curious 
manuscript  in  his  possession,  the  original  draft  of 
the  celebrated  "Beggar's  Petition  "  (who  cannot 
say  by  heart  the  "  Beggar's  Petition  ?"),  as  it  was 
written  by  some  school  usher  (as  I  remember), 
with  corrections  interlined  from  the  pen  of  Oliver 
Goldsmith.  As  a  specimen  of  the  Doctor's  im- 
provement, I  recollect  one  most  judicious  altera- 
tion— 

A  pamper'd  menial  drove  me  from  the  door. 

It  Stood  originally — 

A  livery  servant  drove  me,  &c. 


APPENDIX.  407 

Here  is  an  instance  of  poetical  or  artificial  language 
properly  substituted  for  the  phrase  of  common 
conversation  ;  against  Wordsworth,  I  think  I  must 
get  H.  to  sendit  to  the  "London,"  as  a  corollary 
to  the  foregoing. 

A  DISSERTATION  UPON  ROAST  PIG. 

Lamb  confessed  that  he  borrowed  the  idea  of  this  Essay 
from  his  fj-iend  Manning,  who  had  resided  several  years  in 
China. 

ON  SOME  OF  THE  OLD  ACTORS. 

Three  articles  in  the  "London  Magazine,"  on  "The  Old 
Actors,"  were  considerably  altered  by  Elia,  both  in  matter 
and  arrangement,  and  were  republished,  in  his  collected 
works,  as  the  present  Essays  "On  some  of  the  Old  Actors," 
"  On  the  Artificial  Comedy  of  the  Last  Century,"  and  "  On 
the  Acting  of  Munden." 

The  following  passage,  which  commenced  the  last  of  the 
original  Essays,  was  omitted  m  their  altered  form  : — 

I  do  not  know  a  more  mortifying  thing  than  to 
be  conscious  of  a  foregone  delight,  with  a  total  ob- 
livion of  the  person  and  manner  which  conveyed 
it.  In  dreams,  I  often  stretch  and  strain  after  the 
countenance  of  Edwin,  whom  I  once  saw  in 
"Peeping  Tom."  I  cannot  catch  a  feature  of  him. 
He  is  no  more  to  me  than  Nokes  or  Pinkethman. 
Parsons,  and,  still  more,  Dodd,  were  near  being 
lost  to  me  till  I  was  refreshed  with  their  portraits 
(fine  treat)  the  other  day  at  Mr.  Mathews's  gallery 
at  Highgate  ;  which,  with  the  exception  of  the 
Hogarth  pictures,  a  few  years  since  exhibited  in 
Pall  Mali,  was  the  most  delightful  collection  I  ever 
gained  admission  to.  There  hang  the  players,  in 
their  single  persons  and  in  grouped  scenes,  from 
the  Restoration, — Bettertons,  Booths,  Garricks, — 
justifying  the  prejudices  which  we  entertain  for 
them ;  the  Bracegirdles,  the  Mountforts,  and  the 


4o8  APPENDIX. 

Oldfields,  fresh  as  Gibber  has  described  them  ;  the 
Woffington  (a  true  Hogarth)  upon  a  couch,  dallying 
and  dangerous ;  the  screen  scene  in  Brinsley's 
famous  comedy;  with  Smith  and  Mrs.  Abingdon, 
whom  I  have  not  seen ;  and  the  rest,  whom,  having 
seen,  I  see  still  there.  There  is  Henderson,  un- 
rivalled in  Comus,  whom  I  saw  at  secondhand  in 
the  elder  Harley  ;  Harley,  the  rival  of  Holman, 
in  Horatio  ;  Holman,  with  the  bright  glittering 
teeth,  in  Lothario,  and  the  deep  paviour's  sighs  in 
Romeo,  the  jolliest  person  ("our  son  is  fat")  of 
any  Hamlet  I  have  yet  seen,  with  the  most  laud- 
able attempts  (for  a  personable  man)  at  looking 
melancholy  ;  and  Poue,  the  abdicated  monarch  of 
tragedy  and  comedy,  in  Harry  the  Eighth  and 
Lord  Townley.  There  hang  the  two  Aickins, 
brethren  in  mediocrity  ;  Wroughton,  who  in  Kitely 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  in  prouder  days  he 
had  personated  Alexander ;  the  specious  form  of 
John  Palmer,  with  the  special  effrontery  of  Bobby  ; 
Bensley,  with  the  trumpet-tongue  ;  and  little  Quick 
(the  retired  Dioclesian  of  Islington),  with  his  squeak 
like  a  Bart'lemew  fiddle.  There  are  fixed,  cold  as 
in  life,  the  immovable  features  of  Moody,  who, 
afraid  of  o'erstepping  Nature,  sometimes  stopped 
short  of  her  ;  and  the  restless  fidgetiness  of  Lewis, 
who,  with  no  such  fears,  not  seldom  leaped  o'  the 
other  side.  There  hang  Farren  and  Whitfield,  and 
Burton  and  Phillimore,  names  of  small  account  in 
those  times,  but  which,  remembered  now,  or  casu- 
ally recalled  by  the  sight  of  an  old  play-bill,  with 
their  associated  recordations,  can  "drown  an  eye 
unusedt  o  flow."  There  too  hangs,  not  far  removed 
from  them  in  death,  the  graceful  plainness  of  the 
first  Mrs.  Pope,  with  a  voice  unstrung  by  age,  but 
'vhich  in  her  better  days  must  have  competed  with 


APPENDIX.  409 

the  silver  tones  of  Bany  himself,  so  enclianting  in 
decay  do  I  remember  it, — of  all  her  lady  parts,  ex- 
ceeding herself  in  the  "  Lady  Quakeress  "  (there 
earth  touched  heaven  !)  of  O'Keefe,  when  she 
played  it  to  the  "  merry  cousin  "  of  Lewis;  and 
Mrs.  Mallocks,  the  sensiblest  of  viragoes ;  and 
Miss  Pope,  a  gentlewoman  ever,  to  the  verge  of 
ungentility,  with  Churchill's  compliment  still  bur- 
nishing upon  her  gay  Honeycomb  lips.  There  are 
the  two  BannisterS;  and  Sedgwick,  and  Kelly,  and 
Dignum  (Diggy),  and  the  bygone  features  of  Mrs. 
Ward,  matchless  in  Lady  Lo^•erule  ;  and  the  col- 
lective majesty  of  the  whole  Kemble  family  ;  and 
(Shakespeare's  woman)  Dora  Jordan  ;  and,  by  her, 
huo  Antics,  who,  in  former  and  in  latter  days,  have 
chiefly  beguiled  us  of  our  griefs  ;  whose  portraits 
we  shall  strive  to  recall,  for  the  sympathy  of  those 
who  may  not  have  had  the  benefit  of  viewing  the 
matchless  Highgate  collection. 

MR.  SUETT. 

O  for  a  "slip-shod  muse,"  to  celebrate  in  num- 
bers, loose  and  shambling  as  himself,  the  merits 
and  the  person  of  Mr.  Richard  Suett,  Comedian  ! 

Then  followed  the  characteristic  sketches  of  Suett  and 
Munden,  on  pages  395  and  417. 

To  the  suggestion  (on  page  3S9)  that  the  stewardship  of 
the  Lady  Olivia's  household  was  probably  conferred  on 
Malvolio  "for  other  respects  than  age  or  length  of  service," 
a  note  was  appended. 

Mrs.  Inchbald  seems  to  have  fallen  into  the 
common  mistake  of  the  character  in  some  sensible 
observations,  otherwise,  on  this  comedy.  "  It 
might  be  asked,"  she  says,  "whether  this  credulous 
steward  was  much  deceived  in  imputing  a  degraded 


4IO  APPENDIX. 

taste,  in  the  sentiments  of  love,  to  his  fair  lady 
Olivia,  as  she  actually  did  fall  in  love  with  a  do- 
mestic, and  one  who,  from  his  extreme  youth,  was 
perhaps  a  greater  reproach  to  her  discretion  than 
had  she  cast  a  tender  regard  upon  her  old  and 
faithful  servant. "  But  where  does  she  gather  the 
fact  of  his  age?  Neither  Maria  nor  Fabian  ever 
cast  that  reproach  upon  him. 

The  following  passage,  which  originally  formed  part  of 
Elia's  acute  vindication  of  Malvolio,  was  omitted  when  the 
Essay  was  republished,  to  its  manifest  improvement.  It  is 
interesting  as  showing  how  real  Shakespeare's  creations 
were  to  Lamb.  After  the  word  "misrule,"  at  the  end  of  the 
first  paragraph  on  page  390,  the  paper  in  the  "London 
Magazine  "  continued  : — 

There  was  "example  for  it,"  said  Malvolio; 
"the  lady  of  the  Strachy  married  the  yeoman  of 
the  wardrobe."  Possibly,  too,  he  might  remember 
— for  it  must  have  happened  about  his  time— an 
instance  of  a  Duchess  of  Malfy  (a  countrywoman 
of  Olivia's,  and  her  equal  at  least)  descending  from 
her  state  to  court  a  steward  : — 

The  misery  of  them  that  are  born  great ! 

They  are  forced  to  woo  because  none  dare  woo  them. 

To  be  sure,  the  lady  was  not  very  tenderly  handled 
for  it  by  her  brothers  in  the  sequel,  but  their  ven- 
geance appears  to  have  been  whetted  rather  by  her 
presumption  in  re-marrying  at  all  (when  they  had 
meditated  the  keeping  of  her  fortune  in  their 
family),  than  by  her  choice  of  an  inferior,  of  An- 
tonio's noble  merits  especially,  for  her  husband  ; 
and,  besides,  Olivia's  brother  was  just  dead.  Mal- 
volio was  a  man  of  reading,  and  possibly  reflected 
upon  these  lines,  or  something  like  them,  in  his 
own  country  poetry  : — 


APPEXDIX.  4" 

Ceremony  has  made  many  fools. 
It  is  as  easy  way  unto  a  duchess 
As  to  a  hatted  dame,  if  her  love  answer  ; 
But  that  by  timorous  honours,  pale  respects, 
Idle  degrees  of  fear,  men  make  their  ways 
Hard  of  themselves. 

*"Tis  but  fortune  ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria  once  told 
me  she  did  affect  me ;  and  I  have  heard  herself 
come  thus  near,  that,  should  she  fancy,  it  should 
be  one  of  my  complexion."  If  here  was  no  en- 
couragement, the  devil  is  in  it.  I  wish  we  could 
get  at  the  private  history  of  all  this.  Between  the 
countess  herself,  serious  or  dissembling — for  one 
hardly  knows  how  to  apprehend  this  fantastical 
great  lady — and  the  practices  of  that  delicious  little 
piece  of  mischief,  Maria — 

The  lime-twigs  laid 

By  Machiavel,  the  waiting-maid  — 

the  man  might  well  be  rapt  in  a  fool's  paradise. 
Bensley  threw  over  the  part,  &c. 

ON  THE  ARTIFICIAL  COMEDY  OF  THE  LAST 
CENTURY. 

The  long  passage,  extending  from  page  411  to  p.Tge  416, 
which  we  have  restored  to  this  Essay,  was  probably  with- 
drawn at  the  request  of  either  Kemble  or  Godwin  with  both 
of  whom  Lamb  was  intimate.  The  story  of  the  "  damning" 
of  his  tragedy,  although  told  in  such  a  delightfully  easy  and 
lively  manner,  perhaps  made  Godwin  'jvince,  notwithstanding 
his  philosophy.  As  it  is  impossible  the  passage  should  have 
•^een  suppressed  as  unworthy  of  Elia,  we  have  preferred  to 
insert  it  with  the  context  rather  than  in  the  Appendix, 
though  it  has  little  connection  with  the  real  subject  of  the 
Essay.  "  M."  was  Mr.  Marshall,  an  old  friend  of  Godwin's. 
"  R s "  was,  probably,  J.  Hamilton  Reynolds,  a  dra- 
matist, and  one  of  the  contributors  to  the  "  London  Maga- 
zine." 


APPENDIX. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  LAST  ESSAYS  OF  ELIA. 

The  so-called  preface  to  the  "Last  Essays  of  Elia"  was 
evidently  intended  originally  as  a  postscript  to  the  first 
series  of  Essays.  Lamb  at  the  time  did  not  intend  to  furnish 
any  more  contributions  to  the  "London"  (except,  possibly, 
a  few  pieces  he  may  have  had  in  hand),  and  was  only  pre- 
vailed upon  to  continue  them  at  the  earnest  solicitation  of 
the  publishers.     The  present  preface  first  appeared  as 


A  CHARACTER  OF  THE  LATE  ELIA. 

BY   A    FRIEND. 

This  gentleman,  who  some  months  past  had 
been  in  a  declining  way,  hath  at  length  paid  his 
final  tribute  to  nature.  He  just  lived  long  enough 
(it  was  what  he  wished)  to  see  his  papers  collected 
into  a  volume.  The  pages  of  the  "  London  Maga- 
zine "  will  henceforth  know  him  no  more. 

Exactly  at  twelve  last  night,  his  queer  spirit  de- 
parted ;  and  the  bells  of  Saint  Bride's  rang  him 
out  with  the  old  year.  The  mournful  vibrations 
were  caught  in  the  dining-room  of  his  friends  T. 
and  H.,'  and  the  company,  assembled  there  to 
welcome  in  another  1st  of  January,  checked  their 
carousals  in  mid-mirth,  and  were  silent.     Janus* 

wept.     The  gentle  P- r,^  in  a  whisper,  signified 

his  intention  of  devoting  an  elegy;  and  Allan  C.,'' 
nobly  forgetful  of  his  countrymen's  wrongs,  vowed 
a  memoir  to  his  maties  full  and  friendly  as  a  "Tale 
of  Lyddalcross." 

'  Taylor  and  Hessey,  the  publishers  of  the  "  London 
Magazine." 

^  Janus  Weathercock,  the  nom  de  plume  of  Mr.  Wain- 
wright,  one  of  the  contributors  to  the  "London." 

^  Mr.  Procter,  better  known  as  Barry  Cornwall. 

*  Allan  Cunningham,  the  Scotch  poet. 


APPENDIX.  4,3 

To  say  truth,  it  is  time  he  were  gone — 

And   so  on   to  the  end.     After  the   last  paragraph  of  the 
"  Preface,"  as  it  now  stands,  the  "  Character  "  continued  : — 

He  left  little  property  behind  him.  Of  course, 
the  little  that  is  left  (chiefly  in  India  bonds)  de- 
volves upon  his  cousin  Bridget.  A  few  critical 
dissertations  were  found  in  his  escritoire,  which 
have  been  handed  over  to  the  editor  of  this  maga- 
zine, in  which  it  is  to  be  hoped  they  will  shortly 
appear,  retaining  his  accustomed  signature. 

He  has  himself  not  obscurely  hinted  that  his  em- 
ployment lay  in  a  public  office.  The  gentlemen 
in  the  export  department  of  the  East  India  House 
will  forgive  me  if  I  acknowledge  the  readiness  with 
which  they  assisted  me  in  the  retrieval  of  his  few 
manuscripts.  They  pointed  out  in  a  most  obliging 
manner  the  desk  at  which  he  had  been  planted  for 
forty  years  ;  showed  me  ponderous  tomes  of  figures, 
in  his  own  remarkably  neat  hand,  which,  more 
properly  than  his  few  printed  tracts,  might  be 
called  his  "  Works."  They  seemed  affectionate  to 
his  memory,  and  universally  commended  his  ex- 
pertness  in  book-keeping.  It  seems  he  was  the 
inventor  of  some  ledger  which  should  combine  the 
precision  and  certainty  of  the  Italian  double  entry 
(I  think  they  called  it)  with  the  brevity  and  facility 
of  some  newer  German  system  ;  but  I  am  not  able 
to  appreciate  the  worth  of  the  discovery.  I  have 
often  heard  him  express  a  warm  regard  for  his  as- 
sociates in  office,  and  how  fortunate  he  considered 
himself  in  having  his  lot  thrown  in  amongst  them. 
There  is  more  sense,  more  discourse,  more  shrewd- 
ness, and  even  talent,  among  these  clerks  (he  would 
say),  than  in  twice  the  number  of  authors  by  pro- 
fession that  I  have  conversed   with.     He  would 


414  APPENDIX. 

brighten  up  sometimes  upon  the  "old  days  of  the 
India  House,"  when  he  consorted  with  Woodroffe 
and  Wissett,  and  Peter  Corbet  (a  descendant  and 
worthy  representative,  bating  the  point  of  sanctity, 
of  old  facetious  Bishop  Corbet)  ;  and  Hoole,  who 
translated  Tasso ;  and  Bartlemy  Brown,  whose 
father  (God  assoil  him  therefor !)  modernized 
Walton ;  and  sly,  warm-hearted  old  Jack  Cole 
(King  Cole  they  called  him  in  those  days)  and 
Campe  and  Fombelle,  and  a  world  of  choice  spirits, 
more  than  I  can  remember  to  name,  who  associated 
in  those  days  with  Jack  Burrell  (the  bon-vivant  of 
the  South  Sea  House) ;  and  little  Eyton  (said  to 
be  a  fac-simile  of  Pope, — he  was  a  miniature  of  a 
gentleman),  that  was  cashier  under  him  ;  and  Dan 
Voight  of  the  Custom-house,  that  left  the  famous 
library. 

Well,  Elia  is  gone, — for  aught  I  know,  to  be 
re-united  with  them,  and  these  poor  traces  of  his 
pen  are  all  we  have  to  show  for  it.  How  little 
survives  of  the  wordiest  authors  !  Of  all  they  said 
or  did  in  their  lifetime,  a  few  glittering  words  only  ! 
His  Essays  found  some  favourers,  as  they  appeared 
separately.  They  shuffled  their  way  in  the  crowd 
well  enough  singly  :  how  they  will  read,  now  they 
are  brought  together,  is  a  question  for  the  pub- 
lishers, who  have  thus  ventured  to  draw  out  into 
one  piece  his  "weaved-up  follies." 

Phil-Elia. 

BLAKESMOOR,  IN  H SHIRE. 

The  real  name  of  this  place  was  Gilston.  It  belonged  to 
the  Plumers,  a  Hertfordshire  family,  who  preferred  to  live 
in  a  more  modern  dwelling,  and  left  the  old  house  entirely 
under  the  control  of  Lamb's  grandmother,  Mrs.  Field  ;  and 
Charles  in  his  boyhood  was  a  frequent  visitor  there.  The 
description  of  Blakesmoor  is  very  exact ;  even  the  "  Beauty 


APPENDIX.  415 

with  the  cool  bkie  pastoral  drapery"  has  been  identified. 
But  although  there  is  an  air  of  sincerity  in  Elia's  lamenta- 
tions which  it  is  difficult  to  believe  only  assumed,  the  house 
was  never  pulled  down  at  all :  it  was  in  excellent  preser- 
vation not  many  years  ago,  and  probably  remains  so  to  this 
day.  Lamb  visited  Gilston  in  1799,  when  it  was  undergoing 
some  repairs,  which  he  m.iy  have  mistaken  for  the  process 
of  demolition  ;  or,  as  Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald  has  suggested, 
the  rumour  of  the  alterations  that  were  being  made  may 
have  been  exaggerated  into  a  report  of  its  destruction  ;  or, 
possibly  (a  less  inviting  solution),  Elia,  by  an  "allowable 
fiction,"  merely  imagined  the  fall  of  "  Blakesmoor  "  in  order 
to  give  himself  an  opportunity  of  expressing  his  regret  at  the 
catastrophe. 

POOR  RELATIONS. 

"  Poor  W ,"  in  his  Essaj',  bears  a  striking  resemblance 

to  "  F ,"  in  "  Christ's  Hospital  "  (page  193),  who  perished 

on  the  plains  "  of  Salamanca." 


DETACHED  THOUGHTS  ON  BOOKS  AND 

READING. 

In  these  "  Detached  Thoughts  "  we  have  ventured  to  re- 
store two  or  three  characteristic  touches  which  were  omitted 
in  the  collected  Essays.  The  passage  on  page  24,  vol.  ii., 
is  a  genuine  piece  of  autobiography.  The  piece  the  "  ugly 
rabble  "  had  damned  was  Lamb's  farce,  "  Mr.  H." 

"  Poor  Tobin."     See  Appendix  to  "  Christ's  Hospital." 
"Martin  B."     Martin  Burney,  one  of  Lamb's  most  inti- 
mate friends. 

ELLISTONIANA. 

"Sir  A C "  was  Sir  Anthony  Carlisle,  a  cele- 
brated surgeon  of  that  day,  from  whom  Elia  had  the  droll 
anecdote  of  the  three  Quakers,  in  the  Essay  on  "  Imperfect 
Sympathies."  Lamb  said  in  one  of  his  letters  that  Carlisle 
was  "  the  best  story-teller  he  ever  heard." 


THE  SUPERANNUATED  MAN. 

This  Essay  records  Lamb's  delight  at  escaping  from  his 
thirty-three  years'  drudgery  at  the  India  House. 


4i6  APPENDIX. 

After  "what  is  it  all  for?"  page  Si,  vol.  ii.,  line  5,  the 
original  Essay  continued  : — 

I  recite  those  verses  of  Cowley  which  so  mightily 
agree  with  my  constitution  : — 

Business  !  the  fnvolous  pretence 

Of  human  lusts  to  shake  off  innocence  : 

Business  !  the  grave  impertinence  : 

Business  !  the  thing  which  I,  of  all  things,  hate  : 

Business  !  the  contradiction  of  my  fate. 

Or  I  repeat  my  own  lines,  written  in  my  clerk 
state  : — 

Who  first  invented  work — and  bound  the  free 

And  holiday-rejoicing  spirit  down 

To  the  ever-haunting  importunity 

Of  business,  in  the  green  fields,  and  the  town — 

To  plough,  loom,  anvil,  spade — and.  oh  !  most  sad, 

To  this  dry  drudgery  of  the  desk's  dead  wood  ! 

Who  but  the  being  unblest,  alien  from  good, 

Sabbathless  Satan  !  he  who  his  unglad 

Task  ever  plies  'mid  rotatory  burnings 

That  round  and  round  incalculably  reel — 

For  wrath  divine  hath  made  him  like  a  wheel — 

In  that  red  realm  from  whence  are  no  returnings, 

Where  toiling  and  turmoiling,  ever  and  aye 

He  and  his  thoughts  keep  pensive  worky-day. 

O  this  divine  leisure  !  Reader,  if  thou  art  fur- 
nished with  the  old  series  of  the  "London,"  turn 
incontinently  to  the  third  volume  (page  367),  and 
you  will  see  my  present  condition  there  touched  in 
a  "  Wish  "  by  a  daintier  pen  than  I  can  pretend  to. 
I  subscribe  to  that  Sonnet  toto  corde.  A  man  can 
never  have  too  much  time  to  himself,  &c. 

BARBARA  S . 

The  real  heroine  of  this  charming  sketch  was  Miss  Kelly, 
a  well-known  actress  of  the  time,  with  whom  Lamb  was  on 
friendly  terms.     She  survived  him  some  years. 


APPENDIX.  417 

THE  TOMBS  IN  THE  ABBEY. 

This  Essay  is  an  extract  from  Elia's  fine  letter  to  Robert 
Southey.  The  rest  of  the  letter,  given  below,  sufficiently 
explains  the  cause  of  the  quarrel.  Southey  noticed  the  book 
to  assist  the  sale,  not  retard  it,  of  which  Lamb  was  after- 
wards convinced.  "  Sounder"  had  been  hastily  substituted 
for  "Saner,"  the  word  originally  used,  and  which  Southey 
felt,  in  the  peculiar  circumstances  Lamb  was  placed  in,  it 
was  impossible  to  retain. 

Sir, — You  have  done  me  an  unfriendly  office, 
without  perhaps  much  considering  what  you  were 
doing.  You  have  given  an  ill  name  to  my  poor 
lucubrations.  In  a  recent  paper  on  Infidelity,  you 
usher  in  a  conditional  commendation  of  them  with 
an  exception ;  which,  preceding  the  encomium, 
and  taking  up  nearly  the  same  space  with  it,  must 
impress  your  readers  with  the  notion,  that  the 
objectionable  parts  in  them  are  at  least  equal  in 
quantity  to  the  pardonable.  The  censure  is  in 
fact  the  criticism  ;  the  praise — a  concession  merely. 
Exceptions  usually  follow,  to  qualify  praise  or 
blame.  But  there  stands  your  reproof,  in  the  very 
front  of  your  notice,  in  ugly  characters,  like  some 
bugbear,  to  frighten  all  good  Christians  from  pur- 
chasing. Through  you  I  become  an  object  of 
suspicion  to  preceptors  of  youth,  and  fathers  of 
families.  "Jf  book  ivhich  wants  only  a  sounder 
religious  feeling  to  be  as  delightful  a  sit  is  original." 
With  no  further  explanation,  what  must  your 
readers  conjecture,  but  that  my  little  volume  is 
some  vehicle  for  heresy  or  infidelity  ?  The  quota- 
tion, which  you  honour  me  by  subjoining,  oddly 
enough,  is  of  a  character  which  bespeaks  a  tern 
j)erament  in  the  writer  the  very  reverse  of  that 
your  reproof  goes  to  insinuate.  Had  you  been 
taxing  me  with  superstition,    the  passage  would 

II.  E  E 


4i8  APPENDIX. 

have  been  pertinent  to  the  censure.  Was  it  wortli 
your  while  to  go  so  far  out  of  your  way  to  affront 
the  feeHngs  of  an  old  friend,  and  commit  yourself 
by  an  irrelevant  quotation,  for  the  pleasure  of  re- 
flecting upon  a  poor  child,  an  exile  at  Genoa? 

I  am  at  a  loss  what  particular  essay  you  had  in 
view  (if  my  poor  ramblings  amount  to  that  appel- 
lation) when  you  were  in  such  a  hurry  to  thrust  in 
your  objection,  like  bad  news,  foremost. — Perhaps 
the  paper  on  ' '  Saying  Graces  "  was  the  obnoxious 
feature.  I  have  endeavoured  there  to  rescue  a 
voluntary  duty — good  in  place,  but  never,  as  I 
remember,  literallycommanded — from  the  charge  of 
an  undecent  formality.  Rightly  taken,  sir,  that  paper 
was  not  against  graces,  but  want  of  grace  ;  not 
against  the  ceremony,  but  the  carelessness  and  slo- 
venliness so  often  observed  in  the  performance  of  it. 

Or  was  it  that  on  the  "New  Year" — in  which 
I  have  described  the  feelings  of  the  merely  natural 
man,  on  a  consideration  of  the  amazing  change, 
which  is  supposable  to  take  place  on  our  removal 
from  this  fleshly  scene?  If  men  would  honestly 
confess  their  misgivings  (which  few  men  will) 
there  are  times  when  the  strongest  Christian  of  us, 
I  believe,  has  reeled  under  questions  of  such  stag- 
gering obscurity.  I  do  not  accuse  you  of  this 
weakness.  There  are  some  who  tremblingly  reach 
out  shaking  hands  to  the  guidance  of  Faith — others 
who  stoutly  venture  into  the  dark  (their  Human 
Confidence  their  leader,  whom  they  mistake  for 
Faith) ;  and,  investing  themselves  beforehand  with 
cherubic  wings,  as  they  fancy,  find  their  new  robes 
as  familiar,  and  fitting  to  their  supposed  growth 
and  stature  in  godUness,  as  the  coat  they  left  off 
yesterday— some  whose  hope  totters  upon  crutches 
— others  who  stalk  into  futurity  upon  stilts. 


APPENDIX.  419 

The  contemplation  of  a  Spiritual  World, — which, 
without  the  addition  of  a  misgiving  conscience,  is 
enough  to  shake  some  natures  to  their  foundation 
— is  smoothly  got  over  by  others,  who  shall  float 
over  the  black  billows  in  their  little  boat  of  No- 
Distrust,  as  unconcernedly  as  over  a  summer  sea. 
The  difference  is  chiefly  constitutional. 

One  man  shall  love  his  friends  and  his  friends' 
faces;  and,  under  the  uncertainty  of  conversing 
with  them  again,  in  the  same  manner  and  familial 
circumstances  of  sight,  speech,  &c.,  as  upon  earth 
— in  a  moment  of  no  irreverent  weakness— for  a 
dream-while — no  more — would  be  almost  content, 
for  a  reward  of  a  life  of  virtue  (if  he  could  ascribe 
such  acceptance  to  his  lame  performances),  to  take 
up  his  portion  with  those  he  loved,  and  was  made 
to  love,  in  this  good  world,  which  he  knows — 
which  was  created  so  lovely,  beyond  his  deservings. 
Another,  embracing  a  more  exalted  vision— so  that 
he  might  receive  indefinite  additaments  of  power, 
knowledge,  beauty,  glory,  &c. — is  ready  to  forego 
the  recognition  of  humbler  individualities  of  earth, 
and  the  old  familiar  faces.  The  shapings  of  our 
heavens  are  the  modifications  of  our  constitution ; 
and  Mr.  Feeble  Mind,  or  Mr.  Great  Heart,  is  born 
in  every  one  of  us. 

Some  (and  such  have  been  accounted  the  safest 
divines)  have  shrunk  from  pronouncing  upon  the 
final  state  of  any  man ;  nor  dare  they  pronounce 
the  case  of  Judas  to  be  desperate.  Others  (with 
stronger  optics),  as  plainly  as  with  the  eye  of  flesh, 
shaH  behold  a  given  king  in  bliss,  and  a  given 
chamberlain  in  torment ;  even  to  the  eternizing  of 
a  cast  of  the  eye  in  the  latter,  his  own  self-mocked 
and  good-humouredly-borne  deformity  on  earth, 
but  supposed  to  aggravate  the  uncouth  and  hideous 


420  APPENDIX. 

expression  of  his  pangs  in  the  other  place.  That 
one  man  can  presume  so  far,  and  that  another 
would  with  shuddering  disclaim  such  confidences, 
is,  I  believe,  an  effect  of  the  nerves  purely. 

If,  in  either  of  these  papers,  or  elsewhere,  I  have 
been  betrayed  into  some  levities — not  affronting 
the  sanctuary,  but  glancing  perhaps  at  some  of  the 
outskirts  and  extreme  edges,  the  debateable  land 
between  the  holy  and  profane  regions — (for  the 
admixture  of  man's  inventions,  twisting  themselves 
with  the  name  of  the  religion  itself,  has  artfully 
made  it  difficult  to  touch  even  the  alloy,  without, 
in  some  men's  estimation,  soiling  the  fine  gold) — 
if  I  have  sported  within  the  purlieus  of  serious 
matter — it  was,  I  dare  say,  a  humour — be  not 
startled,  sir, — which  I  have  unwittingly  derived 
from  yourself.  You  have  all  your  life  been  making 
a  jest  of  the  Devil.  Not  of  the  scriptural  meaning 
of  that  dark  essence — personal  or  allegorical ;  for 
the  nature  is  nowhere  plainly  delivered.  I  acquit 
you  of  intentional  irreverence.  But  indeed  you 
have  made  wonderfully  free  with,  and  been  mighty 
pleasant  upon,  the  popular  idea  and  attributes  of 
him.  A  Noble  Lord,  your  brother  Visionary,  has 
scarcely  taken  greater  liberties  with  the  material 
keys,  and  merely  Catholic  notion  of  St.  Peter. 
You  have  flattered  him  in  prose :  you  have  chanted 
him  in  goodly  odes.  You  have  been  his  Jester ; 
volunteer  Laureate,  and  self-elected  Court  Poet  to 
Beelzebub. 

You  have  never  ridiculed,  I  believe,  what  you 
thought  to  be  religion,  but  you  are  always  girding 
at  what  some  pious,  but  perhaps  mistaken  folks, 
think  to  be  so.  For  this  reason,  I  am  sorry  to 
hear  that  you  are  engaged  upon  a  life  of  George 
Fox.     I  know  you  will  fall  into  the  error  of  inter- 


APPENDIX.  421 

mixing  some  comic  stuff  with  your  seriousness. 
The  Qualcers  tremble  at  the  subject  in  your  hands. 
The  Methodists  are  shy  of  you,  upon  account  of 
///«>  founder.  But,  above  all,  our  Popish  brethren 
are  most  in  your  debt.  The  errors  of  that  Church 
have  proved  a  fniitful  source  to  your  scoffing  vein. 
Their  Legend  has  been  a  Golden  one  to  you.  And 
here  your  friends,  sir,  have  noticed  a  notable  in- 
consistency. To  the  imposing  rites,  the  solemn 
penances,  devout  austerities  of  that  communion ; 
the  affecting  though  erring  piety  of  their  hermits ; 
the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  Chartreux — their 
crossings,  their  holy  waters — their  Virgin,  and 
their  saints — to  these,  they  say,  you  have  been 
indebted  for  the  best  feelings,  and  the  richest 
imagery,  of  your  epic  poetry.  You  have  drawn 
copious  drafts  upon  Loretto.  We  thought  at  one 
time  you  were  going  post  to  Rome — but  that  in 
the  facetious  commentaries,  which  it  is  your  cus- 
tom to  append  so  plentifully,  and  (some  say)  inju- 
diciously, to  your  loftiest  performances  in  this 
kind,  you  spurn  the  uplifted  toe,  which  you  but 
just  now  seemed  to  court ;  leave  his  holiness  in  the 
lurch  ;  and  show  him  a  fair  pair  of  Protestant  heels 
under  your  Romish  vestment.  When  we  think 
you  already  at  the  wicket,  suddenly  a  violent  cross 
wind  blows  you  transverse — 


Ten  thousand  leagues  awry- 


Then  might  we  see 
Cowls,  hoods,  and  habits,  with  their  wearers,  tost 
And  flutter'd  into  rags  ;  then  reliques,  beads, 
Indulgences,  dispenses,  pardons,  bulls. 
The  sport  of  winds. 

You  pick  up  pence  by  showing  the  hallowed  bones, 
shrine,  and  crucifix ;  and  you  take  money  a  second 
'ime  by  exposing  the  trick  of  them  afterwards. 


422  APPENDIX. 

You  cany  your  verse  to  Castle  Angelo  for  sale  in 
a  morning ;  and,  swifter  than  a  pedlar  can  trans- 
mute his  pack,  you  are  at  Canterbury  with  your 
prose  ware  before  night. 

Sir,  is  it  that  I  dislike  you  in  this  merry  vein? 
The  very  reverse.  No  countenance  becomes  an 
intelligent  jest  better  than  your  own.  It  is  your 
grave  aspect,  when  you  look  awful  upon  your  poor 
friends,  which  I  would  deprecate. 

In  more  than  one  place,  if  I  mistake  not,  you 
have  been  pleased  to  compliment  me  at  the  expense 
of  my  companions.  I  cannot  accept  your  compli- 
ment at  such  a  price.  The  upbraiding  a  man's 
poverty  naturally  makes  him  look  about  him  to  see 
whether  he  be  so  poor  indeed  as  he  is  presumed  to 
be.  You  have  put  me  upon  counting  my  riches. 
Really,  sir,  I  did  not  know  I  was  so  wealthy  in  the 

article  of  friendships.     There  is  ,  and , 

whom  you  never  heard  of,  but  exemplary  charac- 
ters both,  and  excellent  church-goers  ;  and  Norris, 
mine  and  my  father's  friend  for  nearly  half  a  cen- 
tury ;  and  the  enthusiast  for  Wordsworth's  poetry, 

,  a  little  tainted  with  Socinianism  it  is  to  be 

feared,  but    constant  in   his   attachments,    and   a 

capital  critic  ;  and ,  a  sturdy  old  Athanasian, 

so  that  sets  all  to  rights  again  ;  and  Wainwright, 
the  light,  and  warm-as-light  hearted,  Janus  of  the 
"London;"  and  the  translator  of  Dante,  still  a 
curate,  modest  and  amiable  C. ;  and  Allan  C,  the 
large-hearted  Scot ;  and  P r,  candid  and  affec- 
tionate as  his  own  poetry ;  and  A p,  Coleridge's 

friend  ;  and  G n,  his  more   than  friend  ;  and 

Coleridge  himself,  the  same  to  me  still,  as  in  those 
old  evenings,  when  we  used  to  sit  and  speculate 
(do  you  remember  them,  sir  ?)  at  our  old  Salutation 
tavern,  upon  Pantisocracy  and  golden  days  to  come 


APPENDIX.  42, 

on  earth;  and  W th  (why,   sir,  I  might  drop 

my  rent-roll  here  ;  such  goodly  farms  and  manors 
have  I  reckoned  up  already.  In  what  possession 
has  not  this  last  name  alone  estated  me  ? — but  I 
will  go  on) — and  Monkhouse,  the  noble-minded 

kinsman,  by  wedlock,  of  W th;  and  H.  C.  R., 

unwearied  in  the  offices  of  a  friend  ;  and  Clarkson, 
almost  above  the  narrowness  of  that  relation,  yet 
condescending  not  seldom  heretofore  from  the 
labours  of  his  world-embracing  charity  to  bless  my 
humble  roof;  and  the  gall-less  and  single-minded 
Dyer;  and  the  high-minded  associate  of  Cook,  the 
veteran  Colonel,  with  his  lusty  heart  still  sending 
cartels  of  defiance  to  old  Time;  and,  not  least, 
W.  A.,  the  last  and  steadiest  left  to  me  of  that 
little  knot  of  whist-players,  that  used  to  assemble 
weekly,  for  so  many  years,  at  the  Queen's  Gate 
(you  remember  them,  sir?)  and  called  Admiral 
Burney  friend. 

I  will  come  to  the  point  at  once.  I  believe  you 
will  not  make  many  exceptions  to  my  associates 
so  far.  But  I  have  purposely  omitted  some  inti- 
macies, which  I  do  not  yet  repent  of  having  con- 
tracted, with  two  gentlemen,  diametrically  opposed 
to  yourself  in  principles.  You  will  understand  me 
to  allude  to  the  authors  of  "Rimini"  and  of  the 
"  Table  Talk."     And  first  of  the  former. — 

It  is  an  error  more  particularly  incident  to  per- 
sons of  the  correctest  principles  and  habits,  to 
seclude  themselves  from  the  rest  of  mankind,  as 
from  another  species,  and  form  into  knots  and 
clubs.  The  best  people  herding  thus  exclusively, 
are  in  danger  of  contracting  a  naiTowness.  Heat 
and  cold,  dryness  and  moisture,  in  the  natural 
world,  do  not  fly  asunder,  to  split  the  globe  into 
sectarian  parts  and  separations ;  but  mingling,  as 


+24  APPENDIX. 

they  best  may,  correct  the  malignity  of  any  single 
predominance.  The  analogy  holds,  I  suppose,  in 
the  moral  world.  If  all  the  good  people  were  to 
ship  themselves  off  to  Terra  Incognita,  what,  in 
humanity's  name,  is  to  become  of  the  refuse  ?  If 
the  persons,  whom  I  have  chiefly  in  view,  have  not 
pushed  matters  to  this  extremity  yet,  they  carry 
them  as  far  as  they  can  go.  Instead  of  mixing 
with  the  infidel  and  the  freethinker — in  the  room 
of  opening  a  negotiation,  to  try  at  least  to  find  out 
at  which  gate  the  error  entered — they  huddle 
close  together,  in  a  weak  fear  of  infection,  like 
that  pusillanimous  underling  in  Spenser — 

"This  is  the  wandering  wood,  this  Error's  den  ; 
A  monster  vile,  whom  God  and  man  does  hate  : 
Therefore,  I  reed,  beware."     Fly,  fly,  quoth  then 
The  fearful  Dwarf. 

And,  if  they  be  writers  in  orthodox  journals,  ad- 
dressing themselves  only  to  the  irritable  passions 
of  the  unbeliever — they  proceed  in  a  safe  system  of 
strengthening  the  strong  hands,  and  confirming 
the  valiant  knees  ;  of  converting  the  already  con- 
verted, and  proselyting  their  own  party.  I  am  the 
more  convinced  of  this  from  a  passage  in  the  very 
treatise  which  occasioned  this  letter.  It  is  where, 
having  recommended  to  the  doubter  the  writings 
of  Michaelis  and  Lardner,  you  ride  triumphant 
over  the  necks  of  all  infidels,  sceptics,  and  dis- 
senters, from  this  time  to  the  world's  end,  upon 
the  wheels  of  two  unanswerable  deductions.  I  do 
not  hold  it  meet  to  set  down,  in  a  miscellaneous 
compilation  like  this,  such  religious  words  as  you 
have  thought  fit  to  introduce  into  the  pages  of  a 
petulant  literary  journal.  I  therefore  beg  leave  to 
substitute  «?<wt?raA,  and  refer  to  the  "Quarterly 


APPENDIX.  425 

Review "  (for  January)  for  filling  of  them  up. 
"  Here,"  say  you,  "  as  in  the  history  of  7,  if  these 
books  are  authentic,  the  events  which  they  relate 
must  be  trae  ;  if  they  were  written  by  8,  9  is  10 
and  II."  Your  first  deduction,  if  it  means  honestly, 
rests  upon  two  identical  propositions  ;  though  I 
suspect  an  unfairness  in  one  of  the  terms,  which 
this  would  not  be  quite  the  proper  place  for  ex- 
plicating. At  all  events,  yoti  have  no  cause  to 
triumph  ;  you  have  not  been  proving  the  premises, 
but  refer  for  satisfaction  therein  to  very  long 
and  laborious  works,  which  may  well  employ  the 
sceptic  a  twelvemonth  or  two  to  digest,  before  he 
can  possibly  be  ripe  for  your  conclusion.  When 
he  has  satisfied  himself  about  the  premises,  he  will 
concede  to  you  the  inference,  I  dare  say,  most 
readily.— But  your  latter  deduction,  viz.,  that 
because  8  has  written  a  book  concerning  9,  there- 
fore 10  and  II  was  certainly  his  meaning,  is  one 
of  the  most  extraordinary  conclusions /^r  saltum, 
that  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  with. 
As  far  as  10  is  verbally  asserted  in  the  writings,  all 
sects  must  agree  with  you ;  but  you  cannot  be 
ignorant  of  the  many  various  ways  in  which  the 
doctrine  of  the  *******  has  been  understood, 
from  a  low  figurative  expression  (with  the  Unita- 
rians) up  to  the  most  mysterious  actuality ;  in 
which  highest  sense  alone  you  and  your  church 
take  it.  And  for  il,  that  there  is  no  other  possible 
conclusion — to  hazard  this  in  the  face  of  so  many 
thousands  of  Arians  and  Socinians,  &c. ,  who  have 
drawn  so  opposite  a  one,  is  such  a  piece  of  theolo- 
gical hardihood,  as,  I  think,  warrants  me  in  con- 
cluding that,  when  you  sit  down  to  pen  theology, 
you  do  not  at  all  consider  your  opponents,  but 
have  in  your  eye,  merely  and  exclusively,  readers 


426  APPENDIX. 

of  the  same  way  of  thinking  with  yourself,  and 
therefore  have  no  occasion  to  trouble  yourself  witli 
the  quality  of  the  logic  to  which  you  treat  them. 

Neither  can  I  think,  if  you  had  had  the  welfare 
of  the  poor  child — over  whose  hopeless  condition 
you  whine  so  lamentably  and  (I  must  think)  un- 
seasonably— seriously  at  heart,  that  you  could 
have  taken  the  step  of  sticking  him  up  by  name — 
T.  H.  is  as  good  as  naming  him — to  perpetuate 
an  outrage  upon  the  parental  feelings,  as  long  as 
the  "  Quarterly  Review  "  shall  last.  Was  it  neces- 
sary to  specify  an  individual  case,  and  give  to 
Christian  compassion  the  appearance  of  a  personal 
attack  ?  Is  this  the  way  to  conciliate  unbelievers, 
or  not  rather  to  widen  the  breach  irreparably  ? 

I  own  I  could  never  think  so  considerably  of 
myself  as  to  decline  the  society  of  an  agreeable  or 
worthy  man  upon  difference  of  opinion  only.  The 
impediments  and  the  facilitations  to  a  sound  belief 
are  various  and  inscrutable  as  the  heart  of  man. 
Some  believe  upon  weak  principles  ;  others  cannot 
feel  the  efficacy  of  the  strongest.  One  of  the  most 
candid,  most  upright,  and  single-meaning  men,  I 
ever  knew,  was  the  late  Thomas  Holcroft.  I  be- 
lieve he  never  said  one  thing  and  meant  another, 
in  his  life ;  and,  as  near  as  I  can  guess,  he  never 
acted  otherwise  than  with  the  most  scrupulous  at- 
tention to  conscience.  Ought  we  to  wish  the  cha- 
racter false,  for  the  sake  of  a  hollow  compli- 
ment to  Christianity? 

Accident  introduced  me  to  the  acquaintance  of 
Mr.  L.  H. — and  the  experience  of  his  many  friendly 
qualities  confirmed  a  friendship  between  us.  You, 
who  have  been  misrepresented  yourself,  I  should 
hope,  have  not  lent  an  idle  ear  to  the  calumnies 
which  have  been  spread  abroad   respecting  this 


APPENDIX.  477 

gentleman.  I  was  admitted  to  his  household  for 
some  years,  and  do  most  solemnly  aver  that  I  be- 
lieve him  to  be  in  his  domestic  relations  as  correct 
as  any  man.  He  chose  an  ill-judged  subject  for  a 
poem,  the  peccant  humours  of  which  have  been 
visited  on  him  tenfold  by  the  artful  use,  which  his 
adversaries  have  made,  of  an  equivocal  term.  The 
subject  itself  was  started  by  Dante,  but  better  be- 
cause brieflier  treated  of.  But  the  crime  of  the 
lovers,  in  the  Italian  and  the  English  poet,  with 
its  aggravated  enormity  of  circumstance,  is  not  of 
a  kind  (as  the  critics  of  the  latter  well  knew)  with 
those  conjunctions,  for  which  Nature  herself  has 
provided  no  excuse,  because  no  temptation.  It 
has  nothing  in  common  with  the  black  horrors, 
sung  by  Ford  and  Massinger.  The  familiarizing 
of  it  in  tale  and  fable  may  be  for  that  reason  inci- 
dentally more  contagious.  In  spite  of  Rimini,  I 
must  look  upon  its  author  as  a  man  of  taste  and 
a  poet.  He  is  better  than  so  ;  he  is  one  of  the 
most  cordial  minded  men  lever  knew,  and  match- 
less as  a  fireside  companion.  I  mean  not  to  affront 
or  wound  your  feelings  when  I  say  that  in  his  more 
genial  moods  he  has  often  reminded  me  of  you. 
There  is  the  same  air  of  mild  dogmatism — the 
same  condescending  to  a  boyish  sportiveness — in 
both  your  conversations.  PI  is  handwriting  is  so 
much  the  same  with  your  own,  that  I  have  opened 
more  than  one  letter  of  his,  hoping,  nay,  not  doubt-- 
ing,  but  it  was  from  you,  and  have  been  dis- 
appointed (he  will  bear  with  my  saying  so)  at 
the  discovery  of  my  error.  L.  H.  is  unfortunate 
in  holding  some  loose  and  not  very  definite  specu- 
lations (for  at  times  I  think  he  hardly  knows  whither 
his  premises  would  carry  him)  on  marriage — the 
tenets,  I  conceive,  of  the  "  Political  Justice  "  car- 


423  APPENDIX. 

ried  a  little  farther.  For  anything  I  could  dis- 
cover in  his  practice,  they  have  reference,  like 
those,  to  some  future  possible  condition  of  society, 
and  not  to  the  present  times.  But  neither  for 
these  obliquities  of  thinking  (upon  which  my  own 
conclusions  are  as  distant  as  the  poles  asunder)— 
nor  for  his  political  asperities  and  petulancies, 
which  are  wearing  out  with  the  heats  and  vanities 
of  youth— did  I  select  him  for  a  friend  ;  but  for 
qualities  which  fitted  him  for  that  relation.  I  do 
not  know  whether  I  flatter  myself  with  being  the 
occasion,  but  certain  it  is,  that,  touched  with  some 
misgivings  for  sundry  harsh  things  which  he  had 
written  aforetime  against  our  friend  C,  before  he 
left  this  country  he  sought  a  reconciliation  with 
that  gentleman  (himself  being  his  own  introducer), 
and  found  it. 

L.  H.  is  now  in  Italy;  on  his  departure  to 
which  land,  with  much  regret  I  took  my  leave  of 
him  and  of  his  little  family — seven  of  them,  sir, 
with  their  mother — and  as  kind  a  set  of  little 
people  (T.  H.  and  all),  as  affectionate  children  as 
ever  blessed  a  parent.  Had  you  seen  them,  sir, 
I  think  you  could  not  have  looked  upon  them  as  so 
many  little  Jonases — but  rather  as  pledges  of  the 
vessel's  safety,  that  was  to  bear  such  a  freight  of 
love. 

I  wish  you  would  read  Mr.  H.'s  lines  to  that 
same  T.  H.,  "six  years  old,  during  a  sick- 
ness :" — 

Sleep  breaks  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little  patient  boy 

(they  are  to  be  found  in  the  47th  page  of  "Foli- 
age "  ) — and  ask  yourself  how  far  they  are  out  of 
the  spirit  of  Christianity.  I  have  a  letter  from 
Italy,  received  but  the  other  day,  into  which  L.  H. 


APPENDIX.  429 

has  put  as  much  heart,  and  as  many  friendly  yearn- 
ings after  old  associates,  and  native  country,  as,  I 
think,  paper  can  well  hold.  It  would  do  you  no 
hurt  to  give  that  the  perusal  also. 

From  the  other  gentleman  I  neither  expect  nor 
desire  (as  he  is  well  assured)  any  such  concessions 
as  L.  H.  made  to  C.  What  hath  soured  him, 
and  made  him  to  suspect  his  friends  of  infidelity 
towards  him,  when  there  was  no  such  matter,  I 
know  not.  I  stood  well  with  him  for  fifteen  years 
(the  proudest  of  my  life),  and  have  ever  spoken 
my  full  mind  of  him  to  some,  to  whom  his  pane- 
gyric must  naturally  be  least  tasteful.  I  never  in 
thought  swerved  from  him,  I  never  betrayed  him, 
I  never  slackened  in  my  admiration  of  him  ;  I  was 
the  same  to  him  (neither  better  nor  worse),  though 
he  could  not  see  it,  as  in  the  days  when  he  thought 
fit  to  trust  me.  At  this  instant,  he  may  be  pre- 
paring for  me  s<fme.  compliment,  above  my  de- 
serts, as  he  has  sprinkled  many  such  among  his 
admirable  books,  for  which  I  rest  his  debtor  ;  or, 
for  anything  I  know,  or  can  guess  to  the  con- 
trary, he  may  be  about  to  read  a  lecture  on  my 
weaknesses,  fie  is  welcome  to  them  (as  he  was  to 
my  humble  hearth),  if  they  can  divert  a  spleen,  or 
ventilate  a  fit  of  sullenness.  I  wish  he  would  not 
quarrel  with  the  world  at  the  rate  he  does  ;  but 
the  reconciliation  must  be  efiected  by  himself,  and 
I  despair  of  living  to  see  that  day.  But,  protesting 
against  much  that  he  has  written,  and  some  things 
which  he  chooses  to  do ;  judging  him  by  his  con- 
versation which  I  enjoyed  so  long,  and  relished  so 
deeply  ;  or  by  his  books,  in  those  places  where  no 
clouding  passion  intervenes — I  should  belie  my 
own  conscience,  if  I  said  less,  than  that  I  think 
W.  H.  to  be,  in  his  natural  and  healthy  state,  one 


430  APPENDIX. 

of  the  wisest  and  finest  spirits  breathing.  So 
far  from  being  ashamed  of  that  intimacy,  which 
was  betwixt  us,  it  is  my  boast  that  I  was  able  for 
so  many  years  to  have  preserved  it  entire ;  and  I 
think  I  shall  go  to  my  grave  without  finding,  or 
expecting  to  find,  such  another  companion.  But 
I  forget  my  manners — you  will  pardon  me,  sir — I 
return  to  the  correspondence. 

Sir,  you  were  pleased  (you  know  where)  to  invite 
me  to  a  compliance  with  the  wholesome  forms  and 
doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England.  I  take  your 
advice  with  as  much  kindness  as  it  was  meant. 
But  I  must  think  the  invitatio.i  rather  more  kind 
than  seasonable.  I  am  a  Dissenter.  The  last  sect, 
with  which  you  can  remember  me  to  have 
made  common  profession,  were  the  Unitarians. 
You  would  think  it  not  very  pertinent,  if  (fearing 
that  all  was  not  well  with  you),  I  were  gravely  to 
invite  you  (for  a  remedy)  to  attend  with  me  a  course 
of  Mr.  Belsham's  Lectures  at  Hackney.  Perhaps  I 
have  scruples  to  some  of  your  forms  and  doctrines. 
But  if  I  come,  am  I  secure  of  civil  treatment  ? — 
The  last  time  I  was  in  any  of  your  places  of  wor- 
ship was  on  Easter  Sunday  last.  I  had  the  satis- 
faction of  listening  to  a  very  sensible  sermon  of  an 
argumentative  turn,  delivered  with  great  propriety, 
by  one  of  your  bishops.  The  place  was  West- 
minster Abbey.  As  such  religion,  as  I  have,  has 
always  acted  on  me  more  by  way  of  sentiment 
than  argumentative  process,  I  was  not  unwilling, 
after  sermon  ended,  by  no  unbecoming  transition, 
to  pass  over  to  some  serious  feelings,  impossible  to 
be  disconnected  from  the  sight  of  those  old  tombs, 
&c.  But,  by  whose  order  I  know  not,  I  was  de- 
barred that  privilege  even  for  so  short  a  space  as 
a  few  minutes ;  and  turned,  like  a  dog  or  some 


APPENDIX.  431 

profane  person,  out  into  the  common  street ;  with 
feelings,  which  I  could  not  help,  but  not  very  con- 
genial to  the  day  or  the  discourse.  I  do  not  know- 
that  I  shall  ever  venture  myself  again  into  one  of 
your  churches. 

You  had  your  education  at  Westminster,  &c. 

The  friends  Lamb  indicated  in  this  letter  by  their  initials 
were : — The  Rev.  H.  F.  Cary,  the  translator  of  Dante  ; 
Procter  ;  Allsop  ;  Giilman,  at  whose  house  Coleridge  died  ; 
Wordsworth,  the  poet ;  H.  C.  Robinson,  lately  dead  ; 
William  Ayrton  ;  Leigh  Hunt ;  and  William  Hazlitt. 

It  seems  a  pity  that,  in  reprinting  part  of  the  letter,  Lamb 
did  not  add  a  conclusion  more  in  harmony  with  the  rest 
of  the  Essay  than  the  sly  insinuation  with  which  it  now 
ends  : — 

The  mischief  was  done  about  the  time  that  you 
were  a  scholar  there.  Do  you  know  anything 
about  the  unfortunate  relic  ? 

The  banter  was  carried  on  a  little  farther  in  the  letter  : — 

Can  you  help  us  in  this  emergency  to  find  the 
nose,  or  can  you  give  Chantrey  a  notion  (from 
memory)  of  its  pristine  life  and  vigour  ?  I  am 
willing  for  peace's  sake  to  subscribe  my  guinea 
towards  the  restoration  of  the  lamented  feature. 
I  am,  Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

Elia. 

AMICUS  REDIVIVUS. 

The  hero  of  this  Essay  was  Mr.  George  Dyer,  the  dim- 
sighted,  absent-minded,  childlike,  learned  G.  D.  of  "Oxford 
in  the  Vacation,"  for  whom  through  life  Lamb  had  a  hearty 
friendship.  "  The  oftener  I  see  him,"  he  wrote  to  Coleridge, 
"the  more  deeply  I  admire  him.  He  is  goodness  itself  "  Apre- 
sumably  true  account  of  the  accident  on  which  this  delightful 
Essay  is  founded,  is  containjd  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Hazlitt,  in 
1823.     Lamb  was  away  from  home  at  the  time  it  occurred, 


432  APPENDIX. 

and  when  he  returned  at  four  o'clock,  he  found  G.  D.  in 
bed,  "  raving  and  light-headed  [tipsy,  in  fact]  with  the 
brandy  and  water  which  the  doctor — a  one-eyed  fellow, 
dirty  and  drunk — had  ordered  to  be  administered." 

The  following  strange  note  was  appended  to  the  account 
of  G.  D.'s  immersion  in  the  New  River  : — 

The  topography  of  the  cottage  and  its  i-elation 
to  the  river  will  explain  this,  as  I  have  been  at 
some  cost  to  have  the  whole  engraved  (in  time,  I 
hope,  for  our  next  number),  as  well  for  the  satis- 
faction of  the  reader  as  to  commemorate  so  signal 
a  deliverance. 

Whatever  may  have  been  intended,  the  promised  illustra- 
tion did  not  appear.     Elia  had  "a  mind  turned  to  fictions." 

SOME  SONNETS  OF  SIR  PHILIP  SYDNEY. 
"VV.  H.,"  William  Hazlitt,  the  great  critic. 


NEWSPAPERS  THIRTY-FIVE  YEARS  AGO. 

In  this  paper  Lamb  gives  an  account  (most  likely  a  pretty 

accurate   one)  of  his   newspaper   experiences.     Sir  J s 

M h  is  of  course   Sir  James   Macintosh,  the  author  of 

"  Vindiciae  Gallicae,"  who  was  much  abused  at  this  time  for 
his  supposed  apostacy  from  the  principles  he  had  professed 
at  the  time  of  the  first  French  Revolution.  In  a  letter  to 
Manning,  dated  1801,  Lamb  informs  him  that  "the  poor 
Albion  died  last  Saturday  of  the  world's  neglect,"  and  with 
it  "  the  fountain  of  his  puns  was  choked  up  for  ever."  He 
adds,  "I  will  close  my  letter  with  an  epigram  on  Macintosh, 
the  ' '  Vindiciae  Gallicse  "  man,  who  has  got  a  place  at  last ; 
one  of  the  last  I  did  for  the  A  Ibion  : — • 

Though  thju'rt,  like  Judas,  .in  apostate  black. 
In  the  resemblance  one  thing  thou  dost  lack  ; 
When  he  had  gotten  his  ill-purchased  pelf, 
He  went  away,  and  wisely  hanged  himself. 
This  thou  may'st  do  at  last  ;  yet  much  I  doubt, 
If  thou  hast  any  Bowels  to  gush  out. 

This  was,  no  doubt,  the  "  lucky  epigram  "  spoken  of  in 
the  Essay. 


APPENDIX.  4?i 

BARRENNESS  OF  THE  IMAGINATIVE  FACULTY 
IN  THE  PRODUCTIONS  OF  MODERN  ART. 

The  "  modern  artist"  spoken  of  on  page  I2q,  vol.  ii.,  was 
John  Martin,  whose  picture  of  Belshazzar's  Feast  is  well 
known. 

THE  WEDDING. 

Admiral was  possibly  Admiral  Burney,  a  whist- 
playing  friend  of  Lamb's. 

The  "  Miss  T s  "  appeared  as  the  "  Miss  Turners,"  in 

the  original  Essay.  One  cannot  help  remarking  that,  if 
Emily  was  married  at  nineteen,  and  had  been  engaged  for 
five  years,  she  must  have  been  betrothed  at  rather  an  early 
age — at  the  same  age,  too,  that  Rosamund  Gray  fell  in  love 
with  Allan  Clare. 

REJOICINGS  UPON  THE  NEW  YEAR'S 
COMING  OF  AGE. 

A  few  words  of  explanation  may  render  the  meaning  of 
this  Essay  more  intelligible. 

The  cruel  sport  called  "cock-throwing"  was  formerly 
common  on  Shrove  Tuesday. 

It  is  said  the  Roundheads  celebrated  the  anniversary  of 
Charles  the  First's  execution  by  having  a  calfs  head  for 
dinner  every  Thirtieth  of  January. 

After  the  Restoration,  it  was  custom.iry  to  wear  sprigs  of 
oak,  and  to  decorate  houses  with  oak  branches,  on  the 
Twenty-ninth  of  May,  Charles  the  Second's  birthday,  in 
commemoration  of  his  escape  from  the  Parliamentary  troops 
by  climbing  into  Boscobel  oak-tree. 

Gecrge  the  Fourth  was  born  Augiist  12th,  but  his  birth- 
day was  kept  on  April  2T,rd,  St.  George's  Day. 

CONFESSIONS  OF  A  DRUNKARD. 
Lest  the  reader  should  suppose,  as  many  have  done,  that 
Lamb  himself  was   the   "poor  nameless  egotist"   of  this 
Essay,  we  refer  him  to  EHa's  explanation  on  page  359,  vol.  11. 

A  BIOGRAPHICAL  MEMOIR  OF  MR.  LISTON. 
This  was  one  of  Lamb's  "  lie-children."     He  confessed  to 
Miss  Hutchinson  that  it  was  "from  top  to  toe,  every  para- 
n.  F  F 


4  34  APPENDIX. 

graph,  pure  invention  ;"  and  yet  it  was  "republished  in  the 
newspapers  and  in  the  penny  playbills  of  the  night  as  an 
authentic  account."  Lamb  prided  himself  very  much  on 
the  success  of  bis  hoax. 

THE  ILLUSTRIOUS  DEFUNCT. 
When  Lamb  was  a  young  man,  he  tried  to  increase  his 
small  income  by  writing  lottery  puffs.     He  did  not  succeed 
verj-  well :  his  attempts  were  rejected  as  "done  in  too  severe 
and  terse  a  style." 

THE  ASS. 

"Jem  Boyer."  (See  "Christ's  Hospital  Thirty-five 
Years  Ago.") 

ON  THE  CUSTOM  OF  HISSING  AT  THE 

THEATRES. 

The  only  dramatic  piece  of  Charles  Lamb's  which  was 
produced  on  the  stage  was  his  farce,  "  Mr.  H.,"  which  was 
sei>iel.dam7iatiis.     It  was  never  represented  again. 

THE  LAST  PEACH. 

The  germ  of  this  paper  will  be  found  very  clearly  in- 
dicated in  a  letter  to  Bernard  Barton,  the  Quaker  poet, 
written  the  day  after  Fauntleroy  was  executed.  Bernard 
Barton  (the  "  Busy  B.,"  Hood  called  him)  was  a  clerk  in  a 
banking  house  ;  and  Lamb  warns  him,  with  mock  solemnity, 
to  beware  lest  the  "  cash  that  constantly  passed  through  his 

hands, — in    an    unguarded    hour ;"    but    will    "hope 

better "  things  ;  and  he  is  shocked  at  the  exquisite  adap- 
tation of  his  own  fingers  to  the  purposes  of  "  picking,  fin- 
gering," &c.     "  No  one  that  is  so  framed,"  he  maintains, 

but  should  tremble." 

CUPID'S  REVENGE. 
I'his  is  a  rendering  (after  the  manner  of  the  "Tales  from 
Shakespeare  ")  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  play  of  the  same 
name. 

A  DEATH-BED. 

This  touching  letter  was  written  to  Mr.  H.  C.  Robinson, 
of  the  Temple.     The  dying  friend  was  Mr.  Robert  Norris. 


APPENDIX.  435 

In  the  original  letter,  Lamb  calls  him  "the  last  link  that 
bound  me  to  the  Temple  ;  "  (he  was  librarian  there.)  The 
name  of  Mr.  Norris's  deaf  son  was  Richard,  not  Robert  ; 
and  "  Charley"  stands  for  "Jemmy"  in  the  letter 


THE   END, 


CHISWICK    PRESS  :   CHARLES   WHITTINGHAM    AND   CO. 
TOOKS   COURT,    CHANCERY   LANE,    LONDON. 


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